


Tempered Desires

by mattzerella_sticks



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Pandemic, Baker Dean Winchester, Big Bang Challenge, Bisexual Sam Winchester, Castiel Has a Crush on Dean Winchester, Castiel Wears Glasses (Supernatural), Castiel and Dean Winchester Need to Use Their Words, Dean Winchester Has ADHD, Dean Winchester Has a Crush on Castiel, Falling In Love, Fast Food, First Dates, Gay Castiel (Supernatural), Gay Dean Winchester, M/M, Medication, Mutual Pining, Panic Attacks, Pole Dancing, Recreational Drug Use, Sweet Castiel (Supernatural), Sweet Castiel/Dean Winchester, Sweet Dean Winchester, drive-in movies
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-29
Updated: 2020-10-29
Packaged: 2021-03-09 01:47:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 20,013
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27046720
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mattzerella_sticks/pseuds/mattzerella_sticks
Summary: Dating, sex, and finding love were the farthest things on the minds of both Dean and Castiel. There were more important things to worry about - namely the pandemic that swept across the globe and changed everything. Navigating this new environment was hard enough without adding romance.But fate never intervenes when you expect. From first meetings to first dates, we'll see how Dean and Castiel's relationship blossoms despite the circumstances.
Relationships: Arthur Ketch/Dean Winchester (past), Castiel/Dean Winchester, Charlie Bradbury/Kara (background), Jessica Moore/Sam Winchester (Background), Mick Davies/Sam Winchester (background), Ruby/Sam Winchester (Background)
Comments: 18
Kudos: 94
Collections: DCBB 2020





	Tempered Desires

**Author's Note:**

> Hey hey hey!!! What is up everybody - hope you're all doing good... and READY for my contribution to this year's DCBB!!! It's really different from my previous two entries, mainly because I wrote a shorter, one-chapter piece instead of chapters-long novels. And I'm really glad. I actually had a many-chaptered idea planned but switched to this last minute.
> 
> Mainly because I couldn't spend the entire month of August writing day-and-night because I have a dayjob, unlike last year lol. So instead of a really long, plot-driven piece, I opted for a smaller character-study story that I had so much fun writing. But it wouldn't have been as amazing as it was without my friend Jess listening to me waffle between the two ideas, and my artist for this piece reafre.
> 
> All of y'all should go, before or after reading, and like the art post. This is her first DCBB and she SLAMMED it out of the park! I was blown away. You will be in awe at her beautiful art.
> 
> Here is the art masterpost:  
> [ Art master post link](https://youfoundmykeys.tumblr.com/post/633283437608009728/tempered-desires-story-by-mattzerella-sticks)
> 
> But you should probably get to it then, right?
> 
> Enjoy!

__

Castiel adjusts the mask on his face, shifting the slip of metal in the nose pad so its fabric sits snugly along his nose. Soon the fog darkening his glasses dissipates, and Castiel breaths a quiet sigh of relief. Thankful that it doesn’t escape and mess with his vision like others before it. Sight unimpeded, Castiel resumes his trek down the uncrowded city sidewalk.

Not many people are out today, and those who were kept a healthy distance from each other. Whenever Castiel crossed paths with another pedestrian, he went above in avoiding contact. Squeezing his arms in tight at his sides, turning his head, briefly stepping off the pavement and onto the street: all tactics he deployed ensuring six feet were maintained.

Some might call it overkill, but Castiel saw the necessity if he wanted to avoid being one of many in a horrifyingly growing statistical data pool.

Even now Castiel would prefer being indoors. Curled up on his couch with a blanket around his shoulders and a Netflix movie lighting the living room. But he’s not, because his brother called in on a favor.

“Come on, Cassie, _please_ ,” Gabriel begged on screen, face smushed against his phone’s camera, “You know I’d get it myself if I could, but these pages are taking longer than I thought.”

Castiel levelled a tired glare at the other man, fingers twitching around a cup of coffee. “And they can’t deliver?”

He shook his head. “I already called. They’ve filled their quota for deliveries today, it’s only in-person orders and pick-ups now.” Gabriel disappeared, raising his phone so he looks smaller than usual, more pitiable. “Please, Cassie, it’s paid for, it’s waiting, and it’s _delicious_. Plus, the owner’s as big a neat freak as you are. Maybe more so. There’s no chance you’ll catch it there!”

“It’s not the store I’m worried about, Gabe. It’s everything in between!”

Gabriel shifted again, now towering over his phone with a heavy pout. “Well you’re going to suck it up, then, because I’m calling in my favor!”

Drops of coffee slipped down the wrong pipe, Castiel gasping for air because of it. “Really?” he asks, coughing, “you’re using your favor for this?” A free pass without any limits nor exceptions, given when Gabriel set up Castiel’s new desktop so he can work from home. And this was how his brother would spend it?

“The pie is that good,” Gabriel said, “which you would know if you went and got it… Seriously, I’m _offering_ you a slice here. Opportunities like these don’t happen more than once in a lifetime.” Castiel frowns over the rim of his drink, still debating. Sighing, Gabriel added, “The store also opened back up, like, a week ago. You’d be supporting a business hit _hard_ during all of this.”

Damn. Gabriel always favored low blows, and this one struck where it _hurt_. “Fine,” Castiel said, draining the rest of his coffee, “but I’m counting this as your favor.”

“Well duh, I wouldn’t have said it if I didn’t mean it –“

“Just shut up and text me the address.”

Castiel abandoned his phone to quickly change out of his pajamas. Throwing on some sweatpants, boots, and his favorite trench coat, he returned finding a notification waiting. He plugged the address into Google Maps while slipping his mask over his face, locking up his apartment on the way out.

Twenty minutes passed since then, Castiel arriving in another turn of the corner. He spots the green awning halfway across the block, like Gabriel told him he would. Castiel pockets his phone and continues toward ‘I’m Your Huckleberry’ Pie Shop without further delay. Passes the front door, as instructed, and towards the window at the front edge of the shop.

The closed window covered by some purple gingham drapes.

“Hey,” he knocks on the glass, “I’m here to pick up an order?” No one responds, so he tries again. Louder. “Hello?”

Someone must hear him. The window opens, but whoever did that keeps the curtains closed. “Dude,” a man says, southern twang edged with irritation, “We’re _closed_.”

“Closed?” Castiel asks, nose scrunching under his mask. “How’re you closed – your sign says you’re open for another two hours?”

“We sold out our _entire_ inventory.”

“Already?”

“Yep,” he tells Castiel, “There’s nothing left, not even crumbs. Sorry to disappoint, but I guess you’ve got to come earlier next time.” The other man shuffles from behind the curtains, sliding the window back down. Suddenly, Castiel’s hand shoots out and grabs the window, stopping it. “Hey!” he yells, “Six feet, man!”

“I’m sorry,” Castiel says, “but… everything’s been sold? _All_ your orders were picked up?” He flirts with the idea that Gabriel lied, sending him on a fool’s errand in an attempt at getting him out of his apartment. As soon as he thinks this, Castiel waves the theory aside. His brother was never a good actor, and Gabriel’s earlier pleas reeked of desperation.

From the other side, this mystery man sighs. Castiel draws his hand from the window in the beat between sentences, assured he won’t disappear soon. “We have one order left,” he says, “but dude never showed.”

“Gabriel Novak?”

“What the – how’d you know that?”

“He asked me to pick it up,” he says, “can I please have it?”

The longer there’s no answer, the more Castiel worries he’s alone. Abandoned silently when he wasn’t paying attention. Someone coughs, sending Castiel into a frenzy. He jumps while glancing around the sidewalk. There’s no one besides him and the still unseen man. “Sorry,” he says, “tickle in my… never mind, do you have a receipt?”

“Receipt?”

“Yeah, proof of purchase and all that.” If he didn’t know better, Castiel would think he’s being mocked. An accusatory arched brow accompanying those words. “Gabriel mentioned it didn’t he? Sent you the e-mail?”

“I…” Castiel fumbles for his phone. His latest e-mail was a reminder from Duolingo about keeping his seventy-day streak of Japanese. “There’s no receipt.” Gabriel’s thread appears immediately. “If you’ll give me a few minutes, I can text him for it. I promise it won’t take long.”

He groans, slamming something on a flat surface. Its resulting crash echoes, Castiel flinching for the second time shortly after his first. “Forget about it,” the man says, “I’ll just get it for you.”

“Wait, what –“? Before he can blink, Castiel hears the man stomp off deeper into the store. His thumb presses send without permission, sending the barely finished text. Castiel pockets it, freeing his hands for Gabriel’s pie.

The curtains part, pie shooting out and into his chest. Castiel catches it with an ‘oof’, fingers lamely wrapping around the box. He squints, reading the shop’s name embossed in script on the mint green box circling a drawing of a pie. “Thanks…” Castiel looks up, the rest of his sentence collecting in his mask unspoken.

During their interaction, Castiel would never have guessed the man helping him was attractive as he was. And even with a bandana covering half his face Castiel won’t rethink his bold claim. However, he will reign in his wild imagination; conceding some of it was bolstered by being stuck without human contact for months, intimacy for far longer. Something about his eyes though, sparkling in the midday light and staring intensely ahead, convince Castiel that the difference of what’s in his mind and what exists under the bandanna are minor.

Castiel drags his gaze over the man’s body, taking in his broad shoulders and long-sleeved t-shirt, covered by an apron with the same logo on the box embroidered there. Instead of the bakery’s name, it’s a person’s. Castiel guesses it belongs to him.

“Thank you,” he tries again, “…Dean?”

Spell broken, Dean chuckles awkwardly. He rubs a gloved hand on his neck, other fiddling with his cap’s brim resting behind him. “No problem…” His one hand slips from his neck, but Dean keeps sliding his thumb and forefinger along the brim. “Seriously. On the way getting it, I realized you having a receipt didn’t matter since you name-dropped Gabe. Full name and everything so you _obviously_ knew him. Plus, you were willing to go through the trouble of texting which is a _lot_ for some leftover pie. I mean, even if you aren’t actually bringing it to Gabe, it was just going to sit there until I brought it home.” Dean squints at him, leaning forward, “You okay there?”

Castiel snaps his jaw shut, then remembers the mask hid his gawking. He shakes his head and shrugs, “Sorry, I – uh… I was… that was a lot?”

“Well you did ask,” Dean says, brows scrunched adorably, “…didn’t you?”

“Ask what?”

“Why I was giving you the pie after all that fuss…” Without seeing it happen, Castiel can sense the frown stretching behind the bandana. Clued in by the way his fabric shifts and eyes dip self-consciously. “I figured you might be wondering, and uh – it doesn’t matter. Do you need anything else?”

Castiel’s head tilts as his confusion furthers. “I thought you said you were sold out?”

“Right, I am…” Dean’s hand seizes on the hat, tilting it up somewhat. A few strands of hair fly free and fall over his face, Dean brushing them away moments later. He shifts, grabbing what looks like a clipboard decorated with multi-colored binder clips. “That’s why I closed early, and cleaning early, and… yeah.” Glancing behind him, Dean fiddles with one of the binder clips. “I was halfway through when you came by.”

He apologizes, “I’m sure if Gabe wasn’t busy, he would’ve swung by when you were open.”

“Yeah, I was actually wondering when he’d pop in,” Dean sighs, “dude’s been blowing up the Insta, always asking when we’d be back open.”

“Sounds like Gabriel,” Castiel tells him, “I’m sorry if he annoyed you.”

“No, he wasn’t the only one.” Dean laughs, waving his clipboard, “Besides, with the amount he spends here in a week? Glad he didn’t find another pie shop – God knows I’ll need all the money I can during this whole shitstorm.”

“I doubt you’ll be hurting for too long given how well today went.” Castiel taps on the box, cheeks straining from his smile. “Actually, when Gabriel was asking me to come, he spoke very highly of your shop. I thought he was exaggerating, honestly, it’s a nasty habit. But now I’m tempted to take him up on his offer of a free slice.”

Dean’s eyes widen, and he dips ever closer; his head sticking out of the window. “Wait, you’ve never eaten here before?” he asks, then in a slight mumble, “No… I would’ve definitely remembered you…”

Castiel considers the offhand comment but drops it in favor of answering his question. It would take too much time delving into the hidden meanings in Dean’s muttering. “I’ve actually never heard of this shop until today.”

“No shit?”

“Really.”

Dean slips back inside, whacking his clipboard against his chest. “Well, if all things go well with your first slice… I might see you again?”

It’s so hopeful, so innocent, Castiel nearly faints on the spot. Knowing how easily it can be misconstrued, Castiel steadies his legs and lifts his brows good-naturedly. “Hopefully Gabriel won’t renege on his kindness.” Looking past Dean, at his shop, Castiel’s cheeks warm when he remembers a glossed over point in the conversation. Thankful for his mask, he continues unfettered. Clearing his throat, he nods his head. “I should probably let you get back to your cleaning…”

He startles, following Castiel’s gaze. Then he checks his clipboard, groaning. “Right,” he drawls, slumping so his shoulders were frowning. “I doubt it’ll matter, though, it’s already gone.”

Knowing he should leave doesn’t mean he will. Castiel lingers, curious. “What’s gone?”

“My motivation,” Dean explains, “Usually it takes me forever to clean up after a shift, and with everything else I have to do because of this virus I figured having a head start would be nice. Didn’t hurt I was still amped up from the rush of business… but all it takes is a sudden noise or a – uh – an unexpected visitor, and _poof_! Gone.”

“Oh.” Castiel gnaws on his lower lip, guilt suddenly bubbling in his chest. “I’m sorry that I threw you off your rhythm –“

“Don’t sweat it, really,” Dean says, brightening. Like a wilted flower craning its petals towards the sun’s light. “If it wasn’t you, I’m sure it would’ve been something else. One time I knocked a tray off the counter while mopping and I lost so much time reorganizing my cupboards.” He waits a beat, then adds, “Because I got the idea that my baking trays should have a different spot in the kitchen than where the usually go, but that meant I needed to move a few other things around… and after this one time I upended a bag of flour on myself, I have to consider the entire layout _very_ carefully…” Dean clears his throat, a faint blush creeping past his bandanna. “But, yeah, that rarely happens anymore. Both the spilling and the losing focus, thanks to this.” His clipboard blocks his face briefly, Castiel glimpsing the scribbled instructions and the many binder clips – some folded over chores while others stick straight.

“A to-do list?”

“Yeah,” he says, hiding it away. “I’d always get stuck trying to pick what I should do first, and I’d stand around doing nothing for so long… one day I sat myself down and wrote this little sucker that keeps me on track.” Castiel finds Dean’s enthusiasm about his system charming, invested a great more deal than he should. Which is why the sudden switch from Dean, the quiet defeat now coloring his eyes as he studies what must be the list, bothers him a whole lot. But seeing it prompts a daring reaction from Castiel.

“If I may,” he starts, shuffling the pie box so it rests between his arm and chest, “can I see your clipboard?”

Dean complies without protest, handing over a pen, too, when Castiel asks. Castiel scrawls a short message under the last item on his list, leaning on the box. When finished, he gives it to Dean without meeting his eyes.

“What’s this?”

“Some extra motivation,” Castiel shrugs, “to help you finish, if you want?”

Castiel made a bold move, giving Dean his cell phone number. He almost never took the lead in situations like this, bad at differentiating politeness and interest. There were many times he fell flat on his face after reading a conversation wrong. Saw a spark where there was only ash. Something about Dean leaves no doubt about their subtext, burned wholly by the heat.

When he finally finds Dean’s gaze again, Castiel’s breath hitches. Dean pins him with that earlier intensity, undoubtedly grinning behind his bandanna. “I’d like that.”

“Good,” Castiel says, confidence surging throughout his body. His body feels like it grew a few inches from the boost. “Great. I’ll go, now, so you can get to cleaning… again.”

Dean nods, watching Castiel make his exit. “You do that.”

“Well… bye!” Castiel turns on his heel, striding off. A less smooth exit than he would have liked. However, judging by the weight of Dean’s stare pushing at his back, he left an adequate impression. He keeps his composure until the first corner. Then Castiel breaks, leaning on the building while he digs for his phone.

Gabriel texted him a lot during his conversation. Sent him the receipt but also question after question Castiel skims through.

Uncaring how it will be received, Castiel sends a simple message: _I like your bakery_

Dean slides down his pole, knees settling on the table it’s screwed on. He sits on his haunches, groping for his nearby water bottle resting on another, smaller table he dragged outside. “So?” he asks aloud, “what did you think?”

On that same table, his laptop showed an impressed Charlie clapping. “You’re getting much better, Dean!” she says, “You held that eye opener three seconds longer than last week, but your toes weren’t pointed coming out of it.” He rolls his eyes, absentmindedly thanking her. She continues dissecting his routine as he drinks, mentally tracking the tally of compliments versus criticisms. Being an awesome teacher, the former always outnumbers the latter. “I wish we were back in my studio,” she ends on a sigh, “there’s only so much you can notice through Zoom.”

“I know, s’why I asked if you could stay on after class let out.” Dean shifts, throwing his legs over the table’s edge. “that and because I miss you.”

“I miss you too, Dean.”

He throws his hand over his heart, cooing, urging a laugh from his best friend. Dean adds his own laughter, head thrown back as he savors the moment.

While they communicate fairly regularly through text, see each other during pole classes, and play the occasional online multi-player, Dean knew the longing wouldn’t abate until he could wrap his arms around her in a giant hug. Dean won’t risk her safety, though. Not even for their weekly after-class smoothies.

It was at their last one when she dropped the news about her studio. They sat at their regular table in the shop across the street, Charlie silently listening while Dean complained about his aching muscles. “I mean I know it’s the advanced class,” he whined, rolling his shoulder, “but shit, couldn’t we have spent more time stretching?”

Charlie snorted through her straw. “If it were up to you the whole _class_ would’ve been stretching.”

“It’s _fundamental_ , Charlie.” She whacked him on his shoulder, another wave of pain rolling through his muscles. He bit back his groan, instead ducking his head to avoid Charlie’s expectant gaze and smile curled around her straw. His focus shifted from her onto the television playing in the upper corner of the shop.

It’s muted so he reads the rolling bar of text under the newscaster. She talked about how the United States saw a surging number of cases hitting both the east and west coast. Only a matter of time before the virus creeps further inland. Or it could already be here, as the newscaster ended her segment dangerously. The news switched over from that, rolling footage from last week’s county fair. Cushioning her previous warning with a bit of fluff. There was no softening that impact.

Dean faces Charlie again, noticing her eyes were on the screen, too. “Scary, isn’t it?” Dean prompted, “I mean, who could’ve seen that coming. You’d think we’d catch a break somewhere down the line, right?” Charlie sank further down in her seat, loudly sucking her drink. “Hey, what’s on your mind?”

“What _isn’t_ on my mind?” She sighed, collapsing on their table, hair spilling out of her messy bun. “I have to close the studio.”

“What!”

“Not permanently,” she assured him. Too late, as his heart overcorrected from the giant leap by dropping way below a normal tempo. He thumped his chest, wincing until it beat normal again. Charlie talking the entire time. “Last week I went to see my doctor, and they said it’d be safest for me if I started isolating now because of my asthma. So I’m not at a greater risk of catching it.” She chewed on her straw, pulled from her empty cup. “I had a meeting about it with my staff and they totally understand though, which makes things easier. We’re actually sending out e-mails later switching all our classes to virtual ones, today’s being the last in-person.”

They ended up chatting for the rest of their time together about how classes would work through video conferencing, Charlie helping Dean order a pole for his backyard since he couldn’t use his copied key for her studio.

While the reason for it sucked, Dean doubts he would have ever bought a pole on his own. Charlie hounded him for years, saying he would enjoy her pole dancing classes. He always gave her an excuse on why he couldn’t. But then he ran out. Charlie gleefully jot down his credit card information over the phone the next day. When he stepped foot into his first class, he was miserable. Over time, he managed. Now, though Dean won’t ever admit it, Charlie was right.

He _freakin_ ’ loves pole.

Dean’s laughter fades, his head tipping forward as she calls his name. Unfortunately, this made a chunk of bangs fall over his face, obscuring his vision. “Damn hair,” he sighs, running a tired hand through his sweaty locks. Brushing it out of sight, but not mind.

“I told you this last time, Dean,” Charlie says, “you should order yourself a headband.”

“I’m not doing that.”

“Why? You’re going to wait until it’s long enough for a ponytail?” His glare barely scratches her, the laptop screen shielding Charlie from most of its damage. She keeps that smirk on her face, unflinching in her teasing. “Or are you going to buck up and cut it yourself?”

“I wish I could,” Dean sighs. He leans on his hands, legs kicking lazily in the air. When the news announced all barbers would shutter their doors until further notice, Dean cursed for putting off his monthly trim. And when shopping with Sam for supplies, they passed the men’s grooming section where a perfectly affordable razor set was available. Dean ignored it; confident his hair wouldn’t grow too shaggy.

He broke in the second month after Dean felt curls tickling the nape of his neck. Scouring the Internet, Dean found nearly all razors were either sold out or too expensive for his new budget. “Shouldn’t have let Sam talk me out of throwing Ol’ Faithful away.”

Charlie’s nose scrunches up. “Didn’t it catch fire, like, twice?”

“Besides the point,” Dean shrugs, “I can handle fire. M’not scared.” He shifts the conversation from his hair onto a different topic, like the final season of Netflix’s She-Ra. A perfect distraction. Charlie thanked him for the opportunity by diving headfirst into a monologue about Catra, Dean chiming in at points when his friend stopped for breath.

Midway through Charlie’s lecture about pixie cuts and symbolism, Dean hears his phone vibrate nearby. He snatches it up on instinct, blindly typing in the password. Checking his notifications, a smile stretches wide across his face like a blossom in spring.

Cas sent a picture of himself, his glasses askew because a certain cat rubbed her face against his. He captioned it; _Luci thinks I’ve been ignoring her_. Dean huffs a quiet laugh from his nose, typing out a response. _Have you been?_

**_…_**

_I was trying to nap. Gabriel kept me up all night looking over his pages for any mistakes._

_Nap? When that pretty lil’ kitty needs affection?_

_I think I deserved this nap after all that I’ve been through._

_Dude, it’s the weekend. You should’ve slept in._

_Sleeping in is a bad habit. I have better things to do with my morning than spend it in bed._

__

Dean types out a suggestive response, teeth gnawing on his lip as a coil of warmth expands in his stomach. The heat cannot compete with the icy chill of an imagined scenario, where Dean sees the dreaded three lights blinking for the rest of his day, only for Cas to not send anything. His thumb hovers over ‘send’, debating whether or not he should send his message. _Maybe if you had better things to do in bed_ _😉😝_ Emojis could be excessive, and misconstrued. He deletes them as another argument surfaces, about how they can provide a smokescreen, that Dean didn’t mean what he clearly wrote. Dean adds them back in. And if Cas questions him, misunderstanding his text entirely, Dean can play it off with _more_ emojis. Because he already used emojis, Cas wouldn’t be suspicious. Unless Dean used an emoji that wouldn’t fit with the context of their conversation – like if sent a little dog face instead of a cat’s. Or if he overwhelmed the text box with emojis. What is the right number of emojis that can be sent without showing signs of craziness? Dean’s next message should lap at Cas’s ankles like a gentle wave, not swallow him whole in a tsunami of anxiety. Although Cas might already think something is wrong because Dean stared at his phone instead of sending anything. When did Cas reply–

“-Dean! Hello, Dean!”

“Hmm?” Dean glances up, startling at how close Charlie’s face was. It filled the entire screen, a pointed eye watching him. “Oh, right… Charlie.”

“Yep. Charlie,” she says, distancing herself from the camera, “Your friend you _asked_ to stay on?” There’s no malice behind Charlie’s words, instead a tired acceptance. Not the first time he drifted into his own little world around her. Which is why her next question barely fazes him. “Did you take your meds today?”

Dean sighs, “Yes, _mom_.”

“Then what’s so interesting you’re ignoring me?” she asks, “Seriously, you were still for so long I thought my laptop _froze_. But no, you were spiraling –“

“I wasn’t spiraling!”

“Your dimples were flashing,” Charlie says, tapping at the corners of her mouth, “that only happens when eagles fly down and carry your thoughts all over Middle Earth.” She tucks her fist under her chin, brows raised. “Who’s your eagle?”

His lips wobble, dangling on the edge of being called a pout. “There’s no eagle…”

“Sure…”

She lapses into silence, a tactic that works without fail at breaking him. Dean resists somewhat, spinning his phone on its PopSocket and lifting his leg. Resting his heel on the table until Dean leans with enough force it slides off it. Those only extend his patience so far. “Fine!” Dean barks, hands thrown in the air, “He’s this guy I met while working. We’ve been… talking, every now and then.”

Charlie hums, nodding. “And what does ‘every now and then’ mean?”

Basically any moment of free time since Dean finished cleaning his shop two weeks ago. Cas’s trick worked wonders, Dean blitzing through the rest of his list until he reached the final task left unchecked. He punched in the numbers and then sent his first volley, a barrage of pictures showcasing his beautiful shop. Cas responded positively, engaging him in a conversation that lasted the entire night.

From then they’ve bounced around different topics. When Cas forwarded a screenshot of his brother, they both tried impressing the other by sharing the worst, most embarrassing stories they had in their arsenal about family. A quick review halfway through a Netflix original Sam put on had tears streaming down his face as Cas proved more entertaining than the awful writing acted out on screen. One time, coincidentally, neither could say goodnight so they went on until the first fell asleep.

“You really like him, don’t you?” Charlie surmises, reading him easily. Dean cannot deny it. “That’s so cute!” she gushes, shaking her laptop, “Ugh! The romance of it all! I wish I had something like that…”

He huffs, “Charlie, you’re married.”

“Yeah, but there’s something about new love…” She sighs, wistfulness fogging her camera. “Between two people who are living in two different places, with the luxury of exploring romance without seeing the other every hour of every day.”

A sour chord echoes through the speakers. “I take it things aren’t all rainbows on Paradise Island?”

“I had to lock myself in the closet the other day because her headphones broke and she wouldn’t stop blasting K-Pop,” Charlie sighs, “because it ‘helps her focus’ or whatever.”

Dean envisions his friend curled up in her closet, the image funny enough a few chuckles slip through. “I heard of people regressing during quarantine, but hiding in the closet?”

“Trust me the irony wasn’t lost on _her_ either.” She stands, carrying her laptop with her as she walks around her house. “Enough about my problems, I want to hear more about Cas? What’s he like?”

“Cas?” Dean’s cheeks hurt from smiling, face unused to such an uncharacteristic grin. He remembers studying it in his reflection one morning after receiving a ‘good morning’ from a sleep-ruffled Cas. The way his lips curved, and teeth shone, this smile was gooier than any other. “He’s… he’s nice. _Dreamy_ , but also kind of a nerd… he’s got these gorgeous blue eyes that you could drown in and – and his jawline? I was kinda glad he wore a mask the first time we met. If I’d seen his whole face I’d’ve acted more a fool than I already did.”

“You can’t have been that bad…”

“Charlie, I info-dumped about my _list_ ,” he shudders, recalling that moment. A flush works itself up his neck like when he brandished the clipboard days ago, unbidden by his bandanna. “Seriously, I knew I shouldn’t have kept going on, but it was like the words were forcing themselves out of a sinking ship!”

“He probably thought it was adorable,” she tells him, “I mean, he’s talking to you after it, right? You’re making a bigger deal of this than he did.” Dean shrugs non-committedly, muttering a tepid agreement. “Confidence, Winchester! Proud and loud!”

“Okay, okay,” he says, “It wasn’t as bad as I made it. You happy?”

“Not quite, but it’ll do.” Charlie smiles, settling the laptop somewhere in her kitchen. She abandons it while grabbing herself a drink from her fridge. Popping the cap, Charlie chugs half the bottle. “Hey,” she starts, pointing the bottle at him. Voice tinny as she yells from across the room. “one of my friends was telling me about this date she was on the other night –“

“How? We’re all supposed to be locked in our homes?”

“She did it virtually,” Charlie explains, “like this except, y’know, much more romantic. Fairy lights, takeout, that lesbian period piece everyone’s raving about? Portrait of a Lady on Fire, or something… if you want, maybe that’s an idea you can shoot Cas’s way?”

Dean catches on immediately. He tenses, arms waving frantically. “Woah-woah-woah-woah, no way!” She tries saying more but Dean railroads through with his unwillingness. “I am _not_ asking Cas out!”

“But you like him, Dean! What’s the worst that could happen?”

A book could be written on all the horrible outcomes that might wait if Dean asks Cas on a date. His simple question like a ball being tossed onto a roulette wheel, each nook a different way Dean gets his heartbroken. Charlie’s suggestion takes his anxiety over sending a risky text and multiplies it by infinity.

He cannot share this with her, as a crash interrupts their conversation. Charlie looks off screen, paling. Someone shouts, accompanied by a barking dog. “What’s happening?” Dean asks.

Charlie shifts into focus, frowning on camera. “It’s Kara.”

“Your girlfriend or your dog?”

“Both,” she sighs, “Sorry, I have to cut this short – we’ll talk later, okay? And ask Cas out!” His screen goes dark, Charlie cutting the video feed. Soon it shifts into the Zoom homepage, asking if he wants to start a conference call. He exits the page, closing his laptop entirely.

Dean gathers his belongings and exits from his backyard, dragging his feet off the dewy grass and onto cold kitchen tiles. Placing everything down on a nearby counter, Dean stands at a lost. Skin crawling from Charlie’s suggestion, mind racing since she uncapped the cork he worked hard shoving onto his stale thoughts after that fateful day.

Would he love a date with Cas? _Hell_ yes. Does Dean think Cas feels the same? Maybe…

Maybe isn’t good enough. Without a one-hundred-percent guarantee, Dean will never take the risk. He enjoys talking with Cas like he does. Putting a name to what they are, voicing his expectations of this relationship – in the most basic of meanings – can wait until the virus passes. Dean barely flinches when his brain reminds him that such a date was still unknowable. They’ll have the time if Dean keeps playing it _safe_.

Ignoring a yearning heart was rote after so many years he mastered the art. Dean, however, fights with his still-fraying nerves. Twisting themselves over and over by focusing on the possibility of Cas leaving Dean. He rubs at his eyes, muttering soft curses. “Can you fucking shut up?” he asks aloud. No one answers.

Dean opens a cabinet, grabbing the bottle of weed gummies he kept. Shakes a few into his hand and chews. Chugs the rest of his water, helping any fragments stuck find their way down. _Promises_ he won’t spend any more of his Sunday thinking about Cas.

Finally settled, Dean starts towards his shower. He turns on his heel, though, remembering his phone. No one likes a quiet shower, least of all his brain. When he grabs it, he sees the light of a waiting notification. Cas sent another message.

His resolve holds firm longer than he thought. Dean enters his bathroom, strips, and _then_ wastes an hour chatting with Cas while sitting naked on his toilet.

__

Castiel opens the sliding door of his balcony, stepping into the early morning sun. He sets himself down, sipping at his coffee while enjoying the start of a peaceful day. The quiet doesn’t last forever. With eyes closed, he hears another door open from nearby. Followed by a familiar voice calling for him. “Clarence, fancy seeing you here!”

“I’m always here, Meg,” he sighs, cracking open an eye, “For the past five years.”

“But not always this fresh…” Meg leans on the balcony’s railing, vape pen dangling between her fingers while the wind plays with her short, silky robe. She points it at Castiel, brow arched. “New cut? Gotta say if you did it yourself, I might be coming over.”

He runs twitching fingers over the buzzed sides, chuckling. “I’m not that talented. One of my friends needed a babysitter while she took her mom to the hospital, and I volunteered. Cutting hair passed a good chunk of hours.” Cleaning it up covered the rest of the time until Kelly arrived. Jack bounced into her arms, detailing how ‘awesome Uncle Cas’ let him use his razor. She nodded along like a good mother, stifling her giggles at the mess atop his hair.

After they left Castiel went over ignored patches, trimming off more than he was used to. But, like Meg said, the new hairstyle worked for him. She thought so, Gabriel did, and when Castiel sent the picture Dean’s way –

_Your haircut rules! Wish you could come over and do my hair_ _😫😫😫_

“Why are you up so early?” he asks her, shaking thoughts of Dean from his mind, “I thought your alarm only goes off at noon?”

Meg rolls her eyes, a cloud of smoke billowing past her lips. “Unfortunately, boss needs me in early. Some fools got too crazy last night and totally ignored the new rules, causing a mess. It’s all hands on deck so we can open up tonight.”

“That’s awful.”

“Yeah,” she says, “A fucking awful way to wake up after such a great night…”

He sees the lure for what it is but latches on like a hungry fish anyway. There’s nothing going on this morning, and he can spare Meg a few minutes to share her story. “What happened?”

“I had a date with this guy I’ve been seeing,” she tells him, stretching languidly, “And it was _awesome_.”

His stomach roils at the word ‘date’. Castiel masks his discomfort, grimacing through it. “How?”

“Well, he’s a doctor, so he’s this _huge_ advocate for Zoom dating,” Meg tells him, “but there’s only a handful of times you can see someone without your downstairs going crazy, and I’ve already had to buy another dildo.” She flashes a lecherous grin, winking. “Broke my other one halfway through an Outlander marathon.”

Castiel snorts through his coffee. “Because I was _so_ curious.”

“ _Anyway_ ,” she continues, “I got a package in the mail the other day from him, along with a text telling me not to open it yet. And I didn’t, which is a huge deal because I love opening boxes, y’know? Half my YouTube history is unboxing videos. Fast forward, we’re watching a movie together when he tells me I should open the box. I sliced through that shit like it was nothing, and inside was this little, purple egg thing? A _remote-controlled_ vibrator, but without the remote. That was in his hands.” She presses her thumb on her vape pen, mimicking what Castiel believes is the aforementioned remote. “I didn’t waste a fucking second getting that in me and – well… a lady needs _some_ secrets…”

“I’m glad this pandemic hasn’t robbed you _completely_ of your hobbies.” Castiel finishes his drink, standing. He watches the sun rise further into the sky, cooling under its warmth. “At least _you’re_ getting some…” He must not have muttered it soft enough, Meg asking what he meant. “Just, nothing…”

“Liar,” she accuses, “it’s definitely _not_ nothing. What’s on your mind?”

Castiel rolls Dean’s name around on his tongue, wondering if he should bring his worries to the surface. While he preferred not tainting what they shared with doubts, Castiel knows Meg would continually badger him for answers. Like the shark tattooed on her thigh, she cannot stop after smelling blood in the water. He’s been picking this wound for a long while, leaving an obvious trail. “I’ve been talking to this guy,” he starts, fiddling with the empty mug, “for about a month. It’s been nice and he’s _really_ sweet, but…”

“But…”

“But I don’t know if he’s interested in me, like that.”

Voicing this makes it seem more real. The thought burrowed deeper inside his brain after every conversation, waiting for Dean to move past friendliness. Has him questioning the earlier assessment he made when picking Gabriel’s pie up. Castiel threw out a few soft balls, hoping for a home run. Proof he can use to bolster his waning hope. Asked about his living arrangements, compared stories about past dates, and detailed plans for lonely night-ins: Dean swung wide, missing them all.

“Really?” Meg scoffs, “Hot guy like you? Does he have no taste?”

“On the contrary he has _too much_ taste…” Castiel chuckles, thinking about how Dean sent at least ten boxes of text explaining how each musician brings a certain style when playing in a band, and why Van Halen’s music after David Lee Roth never sounded quite right. “If only I were included in them.”

Meg rolls her eyes, blowing more smoke. “Why are you wasting your time with this guy then?”

Because he likes Dean. Even if they don’t progress any further than friendship, Castiel would rather have that than nothing at all. Though he yearns for more, time will aid in hardening his heart. He refrains telling Meg this, instead shrugging off her question.

She squints, obviously studying him. He lets her. Castiel instead checks his phone for the time, seeing that he should check in for work soon. “If you’re so sure he doesn’t like you like that,” Meg starts, “why are you so hung up on him?”

Castiel sighs, facing her. “I’m not sure of a damned thing.”

Over phone, Dean was charming, cool, and collected. There were no signs Castiel could read that might signal a vested interest besides companionship. Interspersed with their texts, however, Castiel visited Dean’s bakery. In these visits, Castiel’s confusion grew as the other man stumbled through every interaction. Like a boy with a schoolyard crush. Once he mishandled the money, giving Castiel’s twenty back while pocketing the change. Castiel corrected his mistake, then settled in for a five-minute whirlwind named Dean’s apology. Throughout it he hardly looked Castiel in the eye… or breathed. While concerning, each trip only compounded Castiel’s attraction.

“Ugh, all your pining is gross,” Meg whines, pushing off the balcony’s railing. “Stop being such chicken shit and ask your man out already?”

“What?”

She grinned, winking at him. “It’s the twenty-first century, Clarence. There’s no rule on asking boys out…” Meg pulls her robe closed tighter around her. “And if he’s as sweet and nice as you think, he shouldn’t have a problem if you’re wrong.”

“That…” He considers her advice, finding no faults in her thinking. “That makes sense.”

“Of course it does. Now, if you’ll excuse me…” Meg walks towards her sliding door, pausing halfway inside. “I need a shower. I am _ripe_.” She disappears, leaving Castiel alone on his balcony.

He doesn’t linger too long, either. His phone buzzes from inside his pocket. Reminds him there are only five minutes left before he must log in on his work computer. Castiel heads inside, pours another cup of coffee and sits at his desk. Watches it boot up while considering Meg’s advice.

If he were to ask Dean out, how would he do so? Giving a number was one thing, Castiel never progressed far past that on his own terms. His two reliant strategies were letting the other man initiate or hint until they do. These tactics always worked in the past. If Dean were truly interested, either Castiel was too subtle or he’s the most oblivious man in the world. Or both.

“It shouldn’t be too hard,” Castiel reasons with himself, “a date. In the simplest terms…” Unease gnaws as his stomach. He tries distracting himself from it by clicking on his e-mail. The window opens, showing at least seven new messages he should probably handle.

Six of them were work related, except for one. His co-worker forwarded an article, captioning the subject line with ‘Finally, a little freedom…’. In her e-mail she listed some of the restaurants that will be returning in the coming days. He reads through it with faint interest, curious how these eateries can resume business while keeping social distancing rules. The writer had the same questions, and under each restaurant was a paragraph detailing the efforts owners put in place.

A chime rings from his laptop, another e-mail popping into view. Castiel ignores it, however, as its arrival signaled something more important. Near the end of the list was a picture taken of two diners eating outside wearing masks, their waiter protected with much more. The couple in the photo were obviously not he and Dean. Yet his imagination whisks the former couple away, putting them in their place.

He’s dialing Dean before he realizes. By the third ring, Castiel’s senses return. Panic drips down into his chest and makes it hard to breath. On the fifth ring, Castiel wonders if he might escape without harm. It almost switches to Dean’s voicemail. Suddenly he hears the line cut, Dean’s unrecorded voice answering. “Cas?” he asks. Tinny, somewhat distant and warbled, “What’s up?”

Well, it’d be rude if he called for no reason. “Are you busy, Dean?”

“Actually, Cas, I’m in the middle of –“

“ _Wouldyouliketogoonadatewithme_?”

Castiel smacks his forehead, pinching at his brows. He plunged into the deep end, foot in mouth, now stuck waiting for a response. Whether he will sink or swim, that’s for Dean to decide.

“Shit,” Dean hisses, a pan clattering in the background. “Shit, shit, hold on – hold on one moment.” Castiel listens while Dean speaks, possibly away from the receiver. The phone beeps, and Dean sounds much clearer. “Sorry, Cas,” Dean huffs, “I was in the middle of baking a pie, and you were on speaker –“

“Speaker?” Castiel chokes, flush steadily creeping onto his cheeks. “Did anyone hear –“

“Just my other baker,” he promises, “it’s – it’s fine, Cas.”

It most certainly isn’t, but Castiel will pretend until the call ends. He swallows around the rock lodged in his throat. “Apologies, then,” he tells Dean, “I called at a bad time. If you want, I can –“

“Did you ask me out?”

“Um…” Castiel winces, “I can’t very well pretend I _didn’t_ , can I?”

“Do you want to?” Dean asks, tone confusing as Castiel thinks he senses disappointment wading under its surface. Whether imagined or real, it gives him more faith in his response.

“No,” he says, “I – I stand by what I said. What I asked.” Dean won’t answer, silence dragging on. “Dean?”

“And when you asked,” Dean continues, “you – you meant me, right? You meant to call me?”

Castiel chuckles, “Yes…”

“Because you want to – to take _me_ on a date? _Me_. A romantic kind of affair?”

“I would,” he says, “although I’m still unsure how you feel on the matter?”

This spurs Dean into action. “Oh! Sorry, I – sorry. I didn’t really expect, although I was kind of hoping – not to get carried away, but I’ve been thinking about this for a while. Not you calling out of the blue while I was in the middle of making a pie, but this whole – a date between you and me – that kind of scenario. And when I say a while I mean, like, since the day we met, dude. Like –“

“Dean!” Castiel cuts him off, a fond smile tugging the corners of his lips, “Is that a yes?”

“Yes! Yes, I can’t believe – I thought I already said it.”

When Castiel catches his reflection in the dark screen of his abandoned laptop, he sees more wrinkles than usual. Lines earned from smiling fiercely, chatting with Dean about plans for their date. As he hangs up, Castiel silently thanks Meg. This risk definitely paid off.

Dean hurries from his car, nearly forgetting his phone in the cupholder. He reaches back inside, snagging it. Then he continues towards his house, slamming the door open with clumsy speed. Immediately Dean skids to a halt, connecting with Sam’s deadly glare above his laptop.

Growing up, Dean immunized himself against such expressions through constant exposure. A day wouldn’t pass without Sam shooting one at Dean for the slightest annoyances. The quarantine beard Sam grew, however, makes even his glances seem deadly. Like locking eyes with Manson on the prison yard. A Manson dressed for court above the waist, and the beach below it. The combination, while ridiculous everywhere else, works best for video calls. Dean hadn’t seen his brother wear actually pants since his firm sent him home.

He tiptoes across the living room, carefully avoiding being caught by Sam’s camera. When Dean reaches the hallway, he resumes his earlier pace and dashes into his room. From there, he throws his clothes off so he can shower in the ensuite bathroom.

It’s his second shower of the day. Necessary, given how more people seem comfortable walking sans mask. A man even sneezed when Dean handed him his credit card back, arms wrapped around the pie box instead of over his nose. He spent half an hour after that rubbing his skin raw in the back room, but he still felt the germs all over him. Unnecessary complications that tug on his nerves, fraying them even further before his date with Castiel.

His date, tonight. In only a few hours. And he’s showering again.

“At least I have the time to shower,” he mumbles, fingers raking through his hair with shampoo.

Leaving his house that morning, Dean made the decision he would pick Cas up once his shift ended. Cleaning his shop would kill the perfect amount of time, keeping both hands and mind busy. Those plans changed after his other baker, Donna, heard them. When Cas called, Donna was the one who overheard. She spent most of today teasing him, asking after their plans. There wasn’t much he could tell, Castiel handling most of it. Dean’s job was as chauffeur. That and his usual duties in his shop. “You’re not going to lift one finger once this place closes, Dean,” she said, pushing him out of the back kitchen, “go home and get ready for that date of yours!”

He fought. _Hard_. Donna won.

Anyone would have been grateful for the extra time; Dean reminds himself while shower water massages his shoulders. But since the beginning, Dean handled clean up. At first his staff took it as a kind gesture, lowering himself from the ‘boss’ pedestal. What they realized, over time, was Dean closed each night for his own sanity. If he checks off his list, Dean knows it’s done. Someone else doing it, no matter how much he trusts them, leaves spaces for doubt to seep in.

Dean will not let his brain ruin tonight, though. He claws at his scalp as it begins jumping between conclusions, anxious if Donna might forget something important. They’re closed tomorrow. What if she left the stove on –

“No!” he slaps his cheeks, frowning, “Get it together.”

Dawdling in the shower only feeds the seedlings of anxiety. He cuts off their supply, jumping out and onto the bathmat.

Snagging a towel, Dean dries his hair before wrapping the pink terrycloth around his waist. Walking the short distance to his sink, Dean stares at his reflection. The frown already present on his face grows deeper, seeing his overgrown hair standing at attention in all directions. “Fucking hair…”

There’s a pair of scissors in his drawer. Meant for stray beard hairs, it could work elsewhere. At least he mutters the thought every time he opens the drawer. But giving himself a haircut would _not_ be in his best interest at the moment, so he avoids the scissors and grabs a brush. Fixes his hair so the bangs frame his face, top half of his ears partially covered by the mop.

“That’ll have to do.”

Dean checks for stress pimples, mood brightening when he finds none. After some flossing and a dab of cologne on his wrists, Dean exits his shower.

Sam rests on his bed, still wearing his blazer and button down – tie gone, however – and feet crossed at the ankles. He lazily tosses an old football in the air, darting a quick glance Dean’s way. “You’re usually never home this early.”

“Someone’s observant,” Dean hums, pushing a few hangers down the line in his closet. “What are you doing here, don’t you still have work?”

“Case wrapped up early,” he tells Dean, “I’m officially off the clock.” Sam catches the football, sitting up. Shifting, Sam holds the ball in his elbow while producing a joint from his shirt pocket. “You wanna get high and take turns playing Final Fantasy?”

“What?” Dean’s hangers screech as he freezes. “Dude,” he says, craning his neck to look at his brother, “Do I look like I have the time?”

“No, you look like you’re in the middle of a meltdown.” Sam chuckles, dangling the joint between his fingers, “All the more reason for you to light up with me.”

Dean sighs, continuing his search. “Not tonight. I’ve got a date, remember? Or did you already smoke some without me?”

“You have a date?”

“Yeah, didn’t I –“ At Sam’s blank look, he needn’t finish his sentence. He pinches his brow, “Fuck, I knew I was forgetting something.”

Sam produces a cheap lighter, flame hovering under the joint’s tip. It lights, the aroma of Sam’s weed reaching his nose. “Is this with the guy you’ve been texting non-stop?”

“If you mean _Cas_ , then yes,” he mumbles, “I know I’ve told you his name…”

“That’s great!” Sam cheers, collapsing on the bed once more. “Seriously, I mean… how long has it been since you were on a date?”

Dean feels his cheeks burn. With his head buried in the closet, he lets the fire spread across his face. He pulls purple gingham and a denim shirt out, comparing the two. They both knew the last date Dean went on happened months before quarantining became the new normal. It was a night that ended horribly, the other man having drank too much and vomited on Dean halfway through dinner. Dean fled, scarred, barely hiding the puke stains under his jacket. Arthur followed him, apologizing with slurred speech while Dean waited for Sam on a curb near the restaurant. When Sam’s Prius rounded the corner, Dean shoved Arthur into a nearby brush. Hadn’t looked behind him until the restaurant was a distant blur in the rearview. Dating seemed less of a priority after that.

Remembering such a terrifying evening shreds through his remaining composure. Dean’s hands shake, picturing a similar night where Cas makes a mess on Dean’s lap. Sweat pouring down his face, eyes sunken, head hovering over his crotch while he gags –

“Fucking hand it over.” Dean drops his shirts, stealing Sam’s joint. He puffs three times, handing it back with a slow exhale. His nerves dip to a more manageable level, hands steadying. “Fuck… should I cancel?”

“No!” Sam scurried out of Dean’s bed, “No way, you are _not_ cancelling!”

“But what if –“

“No ‘buts’ Dean,” he says, guiding Dean onto his bed. Sam towers above Dean, cherry bright in his dimly lit room. “You like this Cas guy, right? I mean, do you know how many times you’ve rambled on about him? Seriously, I lost track after the seventh time… anyway, you shouldn’t let one bad experience keep you from dating. Especially when it’s with someone who makes you as happy as your car… Batman… or _pie_! Maybe even all of them combined!”

Dean considers Sam’s speech, rolling the words around in his mouth. Some belief fluttered inside his chest, that he was right. It cannot take flight yet. “I really want this to go well, to be perfect,” Dean tells him, “But this… what if something goes wrong?”

“Then it goes wrong.” Sam’s shoulders stiffen, arms folding across his chest. “Things go wrong all the time. You can either do one of two things – smile, carry on like it doesn’t bother you, or get the fuck out.” He claps Dean’s shoulder, grinning, “You’re a good judge of things, Dean. Just trust yourself a bit more, okay? And stay out of here.” His finger taps on Dean’s forehead, Dean whacking it away in the next beat.

Dean pouts, “I know.”

“Although,” Sam continues, snickering, “you might have trouble getting in there, what with how long your hair is. You might get tangled up in it…”

“You’re enjoying my misery,” Dean rises, pushing past Sam. He grabs his discarded shirts, hanging them on the closet rod. “Always wanted me to grow my hair out… bet you planned this whole quarantine thing just so I’d be stuck and forced to follow your hippie grooming habits.”

“I’ll only admit to the former,” Sam says, “but plead the fifth on the rest.” Reclining on Dean’s bed again, Sam blows more smoke out his lips. “You’d make a good hippie though.”

“As if. You see me wearing tie-dye I want you to shoot me.”

“Smart. Blood will blend in with the rest of the colors, no one will know you’ve been murdered.”

“You answered that way too quickly.” Dean chooses a green, button-down shirt. Holding it against his chest, he shows Sam. “What do you think?”

Sam shrugs, “What’s your evening like?”

“Hell if I know.”

“Then good,” he says, “It’s not too stuffy, not too casual. Works in any location. If you were playing it any safer, I’d say find something _beige_.”

Dean tosses the shirt at him, smirking when his brother grunts from the impact. He grabs a pair of dark denim pants next, closing his closet. Turning, Dean finds Sam still lounging on his bed. Unsure where to take the conversation, Dean arches a curious brow. “With me out of the house,” he starts, “what are you planning?”

Sam sighs, pointing his shrinking joint at Dean. “That’s a good question. Since I only found out about it, like, five minutes ago, I doubt I can schedule a date for myself.” He reveals the last item hidden within his shirt pocket, a phone, and slides his thumb over its screen. “Maybe I can see if anyone’s willing… got some potentials I’ve been chatting up the past week.”

Flashing his phone at Dean, he sees three threads with notifications brightening their bars. “Christ,” Dean frowns, “how can you keep up with them?”

“Easy. I take each profile one at a time.”

He rolls his eyes. “You thinking about making it serious with any of these people?”

“Not sure,” Sam says, “the two girls I’ve been talking to, Jess and Ruby, still feeling them out. We’re stuck in that flirting phase. But Mick – sent me his dick on day one. Other night, we were up late on the phone getting _dirty_ –“

“And that’s all I want to hear about that.”

Dean shoos his brother from the room. Prevents any further visits by locking the door after him. Ridding himself of any further distractions, Dean thinks his reprieve before meeting Cas will go smoothly.

It’s particularly bumpy, actually. He slips on his clothes, and while debating whether he should tuck or untuck his shirt, Dean catches sight of his reflection. The clothes on their own looked fine. Seeing them on him, however, makes him reconsider. Dean flings his closet door open, resuming his earlier task.

Exhausting his entire wardrobe, Dean leaves a considerable pile next to his bed. He stares at his most recent decision – a short-sleeved mustard turtleneck he cannot remember buying – paired with the first black jeans. A frown mars his face, judgement heavy on his shoulders. “Look like a douchebag.” Dean kicks the jeans off, flinging them and the turtleneck on top of the pile, and grabs his first shirt choice. When he tucks it into some blue jeans, the intoxicating feeling of satisfaction rushes over him. It doubles when he flattens stray hairs that were mussed up in his haste. Dean’s fingers trace from his middle part down, ending at the tips of his bangs where they curl by his ears.

He checks his phone, plugging in Cas’s address. While quite a distance from Dean’s house, he still has time. Dean relaxes on his bed, switching apps from Google Maps. Twitter and Instagram capture his focus, chaining him there.

When he comes up for air, his tongue beats on the roof of his mouth. Fails at knocking away the cobwebs that hid there. Dean stretches, pocketing his phone. He shuffles from his room, heading towards his kitchen.

Dean never reaches it. Halfway there, he sees Sam sitting on the couch with a controller in his hands. Switching course, he steps closer. “Hey, what’re you play – Jesus fucks! What are you doing!”

Sam screamed loudly, matching Dean’s shout. The controller drops from his hands, landing at his feet. He snatches a nearby pillow and holds it over his uncovered junk, Sam’s composure returning enough he glares at Dean. “What the hell?” he asks, “What are you doing here?”

“What am I –“ Dean splutters, pointing at the pillow, “Why are you naked?!?”

Blushing, Sam curls around the pillow. “Sometimes when I’m alone I like being naked. Haven’t really been _alone_ since…” he struggles through grit teeth, veins popping beneath his skin, “And I figured you’d be _out_ by now…”

Dean snorts, “Why would I be out?”

“Dude, did you s _eriously_ forget about your date?”

“My…” Dean’s heart trips over itself, body tensing. “Shit! My date!” He flees the scene, crashing into his room. Shoves his feet into loafers, grabs his keys and wallet from the jeans he wore at work. Barely breathing, Dean scurries back out and almost slams against his still-nude brother. Standing now, with the pillow glued to his crotch. “What are you – I gotta go!”

“I know,” Sam says, holding Dean’s mask in his free hand, “I’m helping.”

“Thanks.” He slips it on, fiddling with his keys. “…About your –“

Sam stops him. “Let’s never speak of it.”

“Agreed.”

Dean blinks, and he’s behind the wheel. While exiting his driveway, he hopes Cas won’t be too angry with Dean for his tardiness.

Castiel understood ‘being fashionably late’, but a man can only wait so long before the awful notion that he’s been stood up rears its head. He checks his phone, Dean still unresponsive. Three unread messages were currently waiting in their thread, with Castiel debating whether he should send a fourth.

His fingers type and send before Castiel can stop them. _Have you decided to cancel?_ Castiel stares at it, wincing when he reads the little ‘sent’ line under the box. “Dammit Dean,” he sighs, pocketing his phone, “Where are you?”

He steps back from the door, pacing the length of his living room. Luci watches from her perch high on the scratching post he bought her last week. Tail wagging back and forth with each passing second. A constant reminder about how fast time ticks forward. How long since he finished getting ready. How they will miss their reservation if doesn’t arrive in the next few minutes.

“I don’t know Cassie,” Gabriel sighed over the line, Castiel calling him after a half-hour flew by with no sign of Dean. “Maybe he got stuck in traffic?”

“He would’ve texted, wouldn’t he?”

“If you’re getting in a car with this man his phone better be in his pocket and not in his hand, pies or no pies.” Gabriel said. Then, in his next breath, “You seriously think he’s not gonna show?”

Castiel scoffed. “I hope he doesn’t, but I feel that if I prepare myself now the blow will be much softer when it’s eleven o’clock and I’m still waiting here.”

“Bro, you’re always so negative.” Gabriel clucked, worsening Castiel’s temper. “Y’know nothing would keep Dean from tonight, he’s been so excited. Just the other day I called in an order and he wouldn’t stop badgering me, seeing if I knew what you had planned. Someone had to yank the phone away from him, he was like a hyped-up cocker spaniel.”

His brother’s words soothed some of the hurt Dean caused, bandaging the wound. He then proceeds to rip his patch off Castiel, undoing the aid. “I’m actually really proud of you though,” Gabriel continued, “letting Dean drive. Hell, you wouldn’t even get in _my_ car in the first few months.”

“Yes well…” Castiel pinched his brow, growling, “if I hadn’t put off my oil change, that might have been a different story.” Although how much more embarrassing would it be waiting in an outdoor dining area, where staff, fellow diners, and random pedestrians could see Castiel sitting alone.

Castiel’s phone buzzed, drawing his attention elsewhere. He hurried Gabriel off the line, not bothering with hitting the end button. His thumb slides down the screen, revealing the push notification that interrupted their call. Castiel’s lips twist awfully, skimming the Buzzfeed article before sliding it away.

Now, his wandering brought him towards the balcony. Castiel, in need of fresh air, steps outside. There’s a small chill in the air, surprising given the hot July sun he baked under during his lunch break. A linen shirt might be inappropriate, Castiel’s hands rubbing over his bare forearms. “Maybe I can change into something else…”

Suddenly, a loud slam shatters the silence. Intrigued, Castiel looks over the edge; glasses nearly sliding off in his haste. Parked clumsily in front of his building was a sleek black car Castiel remembers from photos Dean forwarded. There’s a whole album dedicated to Dean’s car based on those he sent the day after they made their plans.

Speaking of, a figure darts from the car. He disappears in the next sentence, but Castiel cannot mistake Dean’s figure. The buzzer ringing moments later confirms his suspicions.

Castiel trips over himself on his way over. Pressing the intercom button during its fifth ring, he gasps, “Dean?”

“Hey, Cas,” Dean pants, swallowing roughly through the intercom, “I – uh, I’m here… oh God… wanna come down?” It’s sheepish, as if Dean knows what a damnable offense he made – and so early, too. Like he expects some sort of retribution.

An idea surfaces. Dean kept Castiel waiting, and he cannot consider a single argument as why he shouldn’t return his kindness. Castiel can move at his own pace, even if it’s glacial. His mind and body suffer a sever disconnect in execution. “I’ll be down there right away!” he says. Dean mutters something Castiel doesn’t hear, too busy knocking his head against the wall.

That, and his subsequent glance in a mirror, delay him for an appropriate amount of time. Finding no bruise, Castiel gathers his thing, kisses Luci on her forehead, and then leaves his apartment.

Dean waits just outside the glass doors, nervously running a hand through his hair, mussing up the bouncy locks. Seeing him antsy warms him the tiniest amount, although much of his heart cooled off while he waited. Greenhouse gas level heat can ‘t melt the iceberg that sits in his chest. Castiel exits the elevator, striding forward. Halfway across the lobby Dean spots him, hand freeing his hair to wave.

Castiel keeps his arms at his side. “So,” he says, joining Dean outside, “how are you doing Dean?”

“Me?” Dean asks, pointing at himself. “Well, I’m – uh… I’m good. What about you?”

“I’m quite hungry.”

“You are?”

“ _Famished_ ,” Castiel huffs, walking past Dean. The other man stays on Castiel’s heels, following him towards his car. “If you waited any longer, I might have had to whip something up myself.”

Dean nods, ducking his head. “Right. Yeah…”

They continue their trek in silence, Dean’s eyes glued to his shoes. Castiel’s consciousness takes center stage as he considers easing up on him. He looks completely remorseful. But Castiel, still sore from the situation, cannot concede yet. Mouth pressed in a firm line, he walks around the front of Dean’s car. His hand reaches for the passenger door handle, however Castiel freezes. Hovers there as disease curdles his stomach.

“Hey,” Dean says, softly, dragging Castiel’s gaze from the door, “you okay?”

Castiel shakes out of his stupor, pocketing his hands. “You cleaned your car before this, right?”

Scratching his neck, Dean’s expression pinches tight. “Not _before_ before,” he admits. Castiel’s nerves strangle themselves in their fright, thoughts screaming that he should run. “But,” Dean tacks on, guiding Castiel from worst conclusions, “I’ve been the only one inside her. Always wash my hands and disinfect her after supply runs. The only bacteria in here are the good kind… scout’s honor.” Dean salutes in such a sloppy manner he doubts the man was ever a scout. Over a decade and Castiel remembers the different knots his troop leader drilled into his skull. He doesn’t mention it, though, subtly nodding and slipping inside.

Dean joins him, fumbling for his keys. While waiting, Castiel examines Dean’s car. Appreciates the finer details most owners might gloss over, like fingerprints on the rearview mirror or crumbs in the footwell. His love for the car, oft repeated in his texts, shines through in how he cares for it. Castiel relaxes in his seat, automatically clipping his seatbelt in without fuss.

The engine revs, but they don’t move. Dean’s grip on the wheel bends the leather, brows furrowed in thought. He whistles a low note, “I’m really sorry I’m late, Cas.”

Genuine sorrow hammers at his chest, cracks forming in the ice. “Dean –“

“It was a real shitty thing to do,” he talks over him, staring out the window, “The only thing I could focus on was our date today – I even let someone else close up so I could spend more time getting ready. I think I had _too_ _much_ time, because I got distracted and lost track of the whole plot. And then when I remembered… actually I didn’t remember, my brother had to tell me because I had _completely_ forgot because my brain is a stupid traitor who is out to get me. When I realized it I fucking _bolted_ , broke the speed limit a few times and definitely got caught by a camera. They have so many of them set up but like, why waste our money on tickets when there are better things you can be doing with your time? Tickets are a fucking scam – huh?”

Partway through Dean’s babbling, Castiel placed his hand over Dean’s. Squeezed when the threads of his story started untangling, drawing him from his tangential thinking. There’s a puddle at his feet, chest light and warm from the other man’s sincerity. “Thank you, Dean,” he whispers, “I understand.”

It’s a soft, intimate moment Castiel would never trade for an infinite number of reservations at all the world’s restaurants. Their eyes met, and a drum bellowed in his ears. Castiel’s fingers trace Dean’s knuckles while he soaks up the adoration shining through green eyes. What would make this scene even more perfect would be seeing the cupid bow of Dean’s lips. Crinkles around Dean’s eyes lead him to reason there’s a broad grin waiting under his mask.

Seeing the mask reminds him the outside world exists, it and all its problems. Castiel draws back, wincing. He apologizes now, “Do you have any hand sanitizer?”

“Oh,” Dean says, “yeah, should be some in there… mind if I?” Dean nods at the glove compartment, Castiel leaning back so he can open it. Tossing a small bottle of Purel at him, Castiel liberally applies some on his hands before handing it back. Dean uses some himself, closing the glove compartment so they can disinfect their hands.

“Thank you.” Castiel arches a brow, glancing at the road, “I think if we leave now and avoid any red lights, there might be a free table we can take at the restaurant.”

Dean agrees, shifting out of park and onto the road. “And to further make it up to you,” Dean says, hitting the blinkers, “I’ll break my rules – just for tonight.”

“Meaning?”

“Put on whatever you like.” He motions to the radio deck.

Castiel purrs with laughter. “You know just what makes a man happy, don’t you?” He fiddles with the knob, finding some soft jazz number they let fill up the cabin space. This time, their quiet isn’t as stifling. It feels… _familiar._

Dean turns onto the street where their restaurant waits. While doing so, he notices a few details that send the alarms in his head ringing. First, they’re able to park somewhere on the block. With how antsy everyone became in quarantine, itching for a night out, Dean figured parking would be more of a hassle. Then, as they pass the Salt ‘n’ Sear, he sees the outdoor dining area Cas described. There are tables, chairs, and umbrellas – equally spaced apart at the required six feet – surrounded by decorative trees.

Only problem, the entire area looks abandoned.

Closing his car door, he jerks a thumb at the building. “You sure it opened back up?”

“Yes,” Cas says, thumb scrolling across his phone. He flashes an Instagram post from earlier in the night at him. “They seemed to have been packed, then.”

Dean shrugs, glancing between his date and the restaurant. “Well, let’s find out what the problem is.” His hand twitches in an aborted gesture, nearly taking Cas’s hand. He bets it would feel _amazing_ , but he resists. If his actions when he first entered Dean’s car meant anything, Cas was not too comfortable with that yet.

They cross the street, afforded a clearer view of the inside. It’s dim, and the warning bells pounded against his skull now. He slows, Cas mirroring his wariness. “Why don’t you stay here,” he suggests, “I’ll find out what’s going on?” Cas doesn’t argue, so Dean closes the distance.

He knocks on the door, “Hello? Anyone inside?” Nothing startles behind the glass, and if he peers deeper, chairs were stacked on tables. “Hey,” he continues, banging, “Hello?”

Someone pokes their head out from within the shadows, a waitress going off her uniform. She fixes her ponytail while walking over, returning any loose strands to where they belong. Adjusts her mask over her face, and then cracks the door by an inch. “Yes?” she asks, “What can I help you with?”

“Um, aren’t you supposed to be open?” Dean sensed her disdain halfway through asking his question, aware how it casts him in the awful role as _that_ customer. He clears his throat, glancing back at Cas. “We had a reservation,” he explains, “we’re kind of late… but we didn’t think _too_ late?”

She sighs, wiping at her brow. “Sorry, sirs, we’re closed.”

“Why?”

Checking behind her, she leans closer once confirming no one was spying. Finger curled, motioning for secrecy. “We had to close early,” she tells Dean, “one of our staff got a call halfway through dinner rush that he tested positive. Everyone was kicked out and we’re shut down until further notice.”

“What the –“ Dean hisses, jumping back. He hears Castiel move closer but stays focused on the waitress. “Why the fuck would he come in if he was waiting on test results?”

“Because we either come in or we ‘ _quit’_ ,” she says, tone slapping his face, “Now, if you’ll excuse me… I’d like to go home.” She shuts the door, locking it and receding into the shadows once more.

Dean stands frozen, stomach heavy like a leaden weight sinking ever downwards. His legs wobble, and a headache creaks behind his temple. He rubs at it, muttering curses under breath. Being late was one thing, he can apologize for that. What he had no control over was this virus, and they were almost exposed. By some luck, they managed to avoid eating in a hotspot. Without the restaurant, though, what does it mean for them? And their date?

Sam’s voice echoes, overpowering the ache and panic swirling throughout. Reminds him that perfection he sought was a fool’s quest. It already proved impossible by being late. They overcame that hurdle, with Cas forgiving Dean and still being excited for their date. It might have been taller and more ominous, but like his time mismanagement, they won’t let the restaurant being closed spoil their evening.

“Cas,” Dean sighs, turning, “looks like we’ll –“ He sat with his back to Dean, hunched over on the curb. Surprising, as Dean thought he were a few inches from him before. Dean approaches carefully, “Cas?” he asks, hovering overhead, “Cas, did you –“

“I can’t believe we almost…” he says, voice croaking, “I thought… they were the best reviewed.”

“What?”

“In the article, listing different restaurants,” he explains, “they did everything right! They kept diners separated even though lines went around the block, temperature checks upon entering, each fucking table even got their own hand sanitizer – I mean, it seemed like they had it handled, right? But still, someone gets it. And they spread it. Following, everywhere… like there’s no escaping it…”

“Hey there,” Dean joins him on the curb, instinctively throwing an arm around Cas. He seizes but doesn’t push Dean off immediately. It’s the closest win he has right now. “This _thing_ isn’t _following_ you, okay? It’s a virus. Got no mind of its own. Who’s really at fault are the greedy fucks who’re making people choose between their health and their jobs.”

“I guess…” He stopped shaking, calming somewhat by Dean’s words.

“And seriously? If that’s what management is like, then I’m glad we didn’t eat here.”

Cas chuckles, head turned so he can face Dean. “Then you being late must have been an act of fate.”

He hadn’t considered that, Cas’s observation seeping into his chest and warming it. “Makes sense,” Dean agrees, smiling despite his mask hindering its joy. Cas must sense it, as his own eyes alight with similar happiness tinged with relief.

An inch of space stand between them. Without their masks, Dean thinks he would feel Cas’s breath ghosting across his lips. Wonders what the other man must taste like. Maybe minty, as Cas seemed the type who would pop a few every hour while on a date. Or a teensy bit ashy since Dean doubts he earned such a deep growl without the aid of cigarettes. Whatever it may be, Dean yearns for an answer.

Waiting for one will be the surest test of his strength.

“What do you want to do?” he asks, spoiling the tender moment, “Since we’re out of a dinner, officially?”

Cas sags, body pressed against him. “I don’t want to call it quits,” Cas admits, “but I doubt there’s any other restaurant we can dine at this late.”

Dean’s mind responds with an idea which, surprisingly, he voices without thinking it over.

“That…” Cas hums, reaching out and squeezing Dean’s wrist, “that’s actually a good idea. Let’s do it.”

They stand, walking back towards Dean’s car; their knuckles brushing with every step.

__

Castiel relaxes on the car’s hood, accepting a bag of fast-food from Dean when he returns. “Thank you,” he says, also taking his drink. He stabs the lid with an accompanying straw, then sips some of the Orange Crush inside. Dean jogs around to the other side of his car, sliding onto its hood with practiced ease. Shimmying up so they can lie against the windshield together, Dean peels away his mask and sets it off near Cas’s.

Driving around, they searched within the parameters of Dean’s suggestion of grabbing greasy fast food at a random burger place. They pulled into the lot of the first one they happened across, Dean losing ‘rock, paper, scissors’. While he took Castiel’s order, Castiel could relax. Somewhat.

“Are you sure they’ll let us eat here?” he asked, grabbing Dean’s wrist before he fully left.

Dean pat his hand, freeing himself. “Not like they can have us inside and eat, can they? Besides, me and Sam used to do this all the time after I got my driver’s license. Granted, there wasn’t a global pandemic when we were younger but… never mind.” He chuckles, walking backwards, “I’ll be back in a bit!”

Returned, Dean digs through his bag. Some hair falls in his face while he searches, and he brushes it back with a tired huff. “Fucking hair,” he mumbles, flashing a set of dimples at Castiel.

Castiel plucks a few fries and chews on them, watching him. “You’re still being bothered by your hair?”

“Yeah,” Dean sighs, tossing his head back. Shaking the aforementioned locks out like a shampoo commercial. “Long hair fucking sucks, dude. Don’t know how anyone puts up with it.”

“Probably because they look good with it.”

“Who looks good with long hair?”

“Uh… _you do_?” Castiel hides a snicker behind his burger, Dean’s expression of disbelief tickling his ribs. “Really, you don’t see it?”

Dean scoffs, tossing some fries into his mouth. “I can barely see _anything_ with my bangs in the way. Long hair fucking sucks and I _hate_ it. I mean… look –“ He shows his phone to Castiel. The lock screen picture is of him with shorter hair styled messily, grinning alongside a taller man he guesses was his brother. “Now try tellin’ me _this_ ,” Dean points at his head, “is better than _that_.”

Castiel’s opinion remains unchanged. “It is,” he continues, laughing freely after Dean groans, “Whenever you sent me selfies, I always thought your hair was amazing. I always wanted to see it in person though, free from the hats you wear while at work. Curious about what it’d feel like if…” His hand drifts, hovering by Dean’s ear. He blushes, steeling his nerves. “May I?”

He nods, clearing his throat. “Y-yeah, you can…”

It’s soft. Castiel cards his fingers through, delighting in the sensation. Dean must enjoy it, too, as he leans into his touch. He pulls his hand back in time, tearing into more of his meal. “Just like I imagined,” he says lamely, shrugging.

Dean sits stunned, staring at his lap. Castiel, slowly chewing, waits for whatever spell Dean was under to break. He fixes his hair, chest puffing from the deep breath he takes. “I… guess I can see why you’d like it?” he says, squinting at him, “But then why didn’t you let your hair grow out if your such an advocate for it?”

“Because it all depends on how well you look with it,” Castiel says, “long hair works for you. Me? Not so much…”

“I doubt you’d look bad in anything…”

He muttered this, but Castiel heard. So shocked, he swallows his latest bite too soon. It shoots down the wrong pipe and he starts choking. Castiel claws at his throat, coughing a fit while his burger flops into its box. Dean shouts while reaching for him. Swinging his legs off the hood, Castiel continues hacking with head hanging between his legs. Glasses dangling off the tip of his nose. His back spasms, Dean slapping it while whispering encouragement. Finally, the bite dislodges. Castiel spits it onto the asphalt, gasping.

A straw comes into view, Dean handing over Castiel’s drink. He gladly accepts, draining half of it while Dean keeps rubbing his back. Recovering further, he can better understand what Dean says. “…just some light choking, folks, we swear. He doesn’t have it!” Castiel glances at a couple decked in plastic face shields, glaring at them from the sidewalk. He lifts his drink as a kind gesture, returned with scrunched brows and a fast retreat. “Fucking assholes…”

“Don’t mind them.” Castiel turns, smiling at Dean while pushing his glasses up his nose where they belong, “Thank you, for helping.”

“No problem,” he tells him, “Although I’m surprised what I did helped. That’s not shown anywhere on the poster.”

“Maybe it is? It’s just… small?”

Dean rolls his eyes, leaning on his hands. “Dude, I see that poster every fucking day at the shop. Nothing in there about treating the person like a stuck ketchup bottle, not even in the fine print.” He picks up his burger again, frowning at it. “Speaking of ketchup, you got any? I think they rationed me when filling up my bag.”

“I have a ton of packets in here.” Castiel jiggles the bag, smiling, “Have at it, as a reward for saving my life.”

“If that’s your reward, then I should save your life more often.”

“Ketchup means that much to you?”

“Ketchup is _awesome_.”

They devolve into giggling, Dean accepting the offered packets with a bright smile Castiel watches until it disappears with his next bite. However, one cracks across Castiel’s face after noticing the smears of ketchup staining his mouth. Dean, with puffed cheeks, asks about it. When Castiel explains the cause, he meekly swipes a napkin over, cleaning himself. Finished, he reveals a tinier, more adorable smile.

Dinner isn’t a lengthy affair, since it being _fast_ food. Dean runs back inside when they finish to grab some ice cream so they can remain in each other’s company further as night fully overtakes the sky. Conversation advances, too, as they delve past shallower topics and into deeper waters they never quite tread through text.

Castiel asks about Dean’s job, and why he chose to be a baker. “Well, it’s something I always loved doing,” he confesses, stirring the soggy mess of his dessert, “since I was little, with my mom. Back then I used to have these _really_ bad fits, and it seemed like there wasn’t anything that could calm me down. And it’d happen out of nowhere – I mean, not exactly. If I’d gotten overwhelmed or too frustrated, they would spiral from there. Back then, though, we couldn’t really understand why or when. My dad gave up early on, but my mom…” His voice softened, Castiel shifting closer so he can hear. Wraps _his_ arm around Dean’s shoulders. “She always stayed by me, tried her best. One day she picked me up and dropped me on a chair with some dough and told me to roll it. Roll it until all the yuckiness inside faded away, crushed under the pin.”

“That worked?”

“Somehow,” he laughs, “by the time I calmed down that dough was flatter than paper. Then, she gave me these funky cookie cutters and we didn’t stop until a plate of fresh cookies were sitting on a window to cool. Since then, whenever I fell into a fit, she’d step in with something new for me to bake. She’d help, in the beginning, but baking wasn’t her strongest suit. When I started making my own dough, she tapped out. I didn’t. Kept with it, even after she passed, and – hell, they say do what you love, right?”

“That…” Castiel squeezes his shoulder, knocking their heads together, “that’s a wonderful story. Your mother, she sounds like a great parent.”

“Yeah…” Dean clears his throat, shoving the plastic spoon in his mouth. Under the streetlights, Castiel sees pink shadow Dean’s cheeks. “She was. Don’t think she thought I’d make a business out of it, though.”

“A successful business.”

“I mean how can you define success in – ‘ _unprecedented times, such as these_ ’.” They chuckle, Dean’s air quotes hanging in the air between them. “But really, it’s luck I’ve made it this far. I didn’t know a thing about running a business when I opened the shop, but I couldn’t see myself doing anything else. After I saved up enough money working at my uncle’s garage, I sunk it all there.”

“It’s more than luck Dean,” Castiel tells him, “You’re talented… and passionate. Not many people can follow their dreams, even before this pandemic hit. You took a risk and made it successful. You should be proud.”

Dean reaches for the hand on his shoulder, rubbing it. “I am,” he whispers. Then, clearing his throat, he pulls back. “Enough about me,” Dean says, “what about you? Always see yourself… doing what you do?” Blinking, his expression pinches. “What _do_ you do?”

Castiel explains his job as best he can, going over details when Dean asks questions. “But did I ever think this is where I’d end up?” He taps at his chin, humming. “No, I can’t say I thought my future career would involve so many _numbers_.”

“Where’d you think you’d end up?”

“Writing something,” Castiel says, “When we were little, Gabriel and I loved making up stories. I’d craft it, and the dialogue, while he would spend hours drawing everything I wrote. We were the perfect team… only he went on and made a career for himself in comic books while I… didn’t.” Their stories weren’t too original, or well-thought out. Compliments from their parents were definitely forced and undeserving. It did not matter, as he enjoyed bringing characters to life. Writing gave him a sense of calm like the one Dean communicated when describing why he baked. Over the years, he found less time for writing. Castiel cannot remember the last time he opened a blank Word document that wasn’t for a report.

“Do you miss it?”

He answers without hesitation. “Yes.”

“Y’know,” Dean starts, “maybe Gabriel misses it, too. You should ask him to collaborate on something, since we’ve got the time stuck at home.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t,” Castiel says, releasing Dean so his arms can wrap around his knees. “He’s so busy, I doubt he could squeeze me in for something like that.”

Dean follows him, knocking their shoulders together. “He’s your brother. He’d make the time.”

“I wouldn’t know where to begin,” he argues, “I don’t have a story –“

“Dude, I didn’t say _this second_.” Dean laughs, goading some out of Castiel. “But you should really consider it, if you miss writing so much. With or without Gabriel’s help. Although I’d love to see what kind of comic you two work on, I bet it’d be kick-ass!”

Castiel’s spirt lifts at the compliment, lips curling around the spoon in delight. He finishes his ice cream, tossing the carton in the designated bag. “This has been a great night.”

“I know,” Dean copies him, sighing, “wish it didn’t have to end, though.”

Arching a brow, Castiel asks, “Why does it have to end?”

“Well… if you’re still hungry I could go for some fries?”

“No, no,” he says, searching for a bookmarked website on his phone. “Besides the restaurant, I had something else planned that might be fun. That is… if you’re still up for it? And if they’re still doing it, too?”

Dean agrees, looking over Castiel’s shoulder as the page loads. He taps on the screen, “If we leave now, we can definitely make it in time for this!”

“Then let’s go!” Castiel slides off Dean’s car, taking their bags with him. While Dean readies for a quick getaway, he finds the nearest trash can and throws their garbage into it. Castiel lingers by the can, short-circuited by the thrill of being with Dean for far longer than he could hope for. Because of their improvised dinner, Castiel figured the rest of the evening was a total wash. Except Dean wanted to spend _more_ time with him.

Dean calls for him, “Hurry up, Cas!”

“Coming Dean!” Castiel jogs towards the car, sliding inside. They drive out of the lot before he can buckle his seat belt.

Dean can cross ‘seeing a movie at a drive-in theater’ off his bucket list now. He shifts in his seat, stretching while he has the space. Yawning, rubbing at his eyes while Cas is off buying concessions from the nearby stand; “You went for dinner, it’s only fair.”

“Seriously? You still got room for snacks?”

“There’s always room for popcorn.” Cas chuckled, poking his head through the open window, “You want anything?” Dean asked for a bottle of water and some chocolates, handing over a five. It went ignored as Cas scampered off. “My treat!”

Alone, his attention jumps around the abandoned field where the movies were being shown. There’s a giant projector set up in front of all the parked cars. Nothing plays yet as the crew works on selecting the next movie. Instead of the usual projector, it’s a tiny box hooked up with a laptop. From what the website showed, they were playing movies off of Netflix. Tonight’s theme being ‘Cult Classics’. While they missed Airplane, Dean and Cas arrived in time for Spaceballs.

“I can’t believe you’ve never seen Spaceballs, Cas,” Dean said on the drive over, “it’s one of the _best_ Mel Brooks films.”

Cas shrugged, typing into his phone while he purchased their tickets. “I guess it never pinged my radar.”

“Or maybe someone _jammed_ your radar.” Dean bounces his brows, expectantly waiting for Cas’s giggles. When Cas stares blankly at him, he swallows his laughter. His hands tighten on the wheel. “Okay, yeah, you need to see this movie.”

The door opens, Cas back with their snacks. He accepts the water and M&Ms, jaw dropping when Cas places the jumbo-sized popcorn between them. “That’s a lot…”

“In case you wanted some.”

“Thanks…” Dean grabs a few and pops them into his mouth, gaze flickering onto the screen as it lights up. “Good timing, it’s starting now.”

Cas chews on some popcorn, whispering, “Is there anything I should know before this starts?”

“It’s a parody movie of Star Wars –“

“What’s Star Wars?” Dean’s neck jerks so quickly he strains a muscle in his collarbone, eyes bursting from their sockets. For no reason, it seemed, since Cas guilelessly blinks at him. “Kidding, kidding, I know what Star Wars is.”

Dean sags, rubbing at his chest. “Thank God, otherwise I’d have to get the hell out of here.”

“This is _your_ car, Dean,” Cas reminds him.

“I know,” he says, taking more popcorn, “that’s how seriously I take Star Wars.” Cas shoves him, Dean’s smile stretching wider from his reaction.

They settle in, movie finished loading. Dean rips into his candy while text scrolls across the screen. Ignoring it having seen this opening scene a number of times, not enraptured by the words like Cas. He holds the bag over his mouth, M&Ms cascading like a waterfall into his mouth. “Want some?”

Cas takes a few, slipping one past his lips. Dean watches Cas for some time, safe knowing he won’t miss much in the first few minutes. He overestimates the amount of time they spend in space, however, and checks back as Vespa flees her wedding. “Shit,” he hisses. Leaning forward, Dean stares at the movie and swallows a few more M&Ms.

Focusing becomes harder the longer they sit. He figured once Bill Pullman’s character entered the movie he could lock in on him and coast. The man might not be Harrison Ford, but Dean’s sexual awakening was built on the back of more than one man: Lone Starr being a load-bearing column. The years changed him, unfortunately, as Dean could not find anything about the bounty hunter that could tether him. An itch crept under his skin as he felt the boredom taking hold; made worse by there being no more candy. His fingers folded and unfolded the wrapper while the movie played, Dean barely paying attention.

Cas touches his shoulder, startling Dean enough the bag wrapper tore in half. “I get it,” he says, pointing at the screen, “ _jammed_.”

Dean nodded, grimacing. He received a gummy smile before Cas faced the movie again. How he wished it were that easy.

Usually Dean knows better. So thrilled to spend a few more hours with Cas, he forgot how troublesome it is watching movies. At least when that’s _all_ he can do. His brain strays easily from the primary plot, finding its own secondary stories while missing the entire film. There are only a few ways he can watch a movie without hassle. One would seem the rude. The other, he hasn’t got on him. Which leaves the third.

“Hey Cas,” Dean whispers as the heroes crash into the desert, “do you mind if I grab something from my glovebox?”

“Go ahead.” Cas shifts his knees, giving Dean needed room. While he searches, Cas asks, “What are you getting?”

“It’s, my – uh…” He flushes, studying the popcorn bucket, “my fidget spinner.”

“You have one of those?” The unasked question remains hidden, but Dean knows it’s there – _Isn’t that a children’s toy?_

Dean nods, showing it off. Its three ends are sharper than most; pointed, not rounded. The gold paint shines under the cabin light. “It gives my hands something to do,” he explains, “usually I’m not so fidgety when I take my meds, but it’s been a long day. And kind of hectic…” He breathes deep, shrinking, “If I don’t use it, I probably won’t be able to be present for the movie – and you. I could go on my phone, if that’s better? I’ve also found weed helps calm me but I don’t have any at the moment.” He winces, realizing how much he dumped on Cas when all he could’ve said was ‘yes’ or ‘no’. “Sorry that I can’t be a normal person without _help_.” Dean recoils, uncomfortably straight in his seat. He spins the toy with a fast-beating heart.

“You don’t have to apologize,” Cas tells him. He glances at the other man, finding a frown there. “If that’s what you need to do, then do it. I understand.”

Dean flicks his fidget spinner again. “Really?”

“Yes, I…” Pausing, Cas’s expression darkens, “Do other people give you a hard time about this?”

“Not most people,” Dean admits, shrugging, “but a lot of the men I’ve gone out with don’t take my ADHD seriously. Think I’m just overreacting… and making stuff up. It’s… not something I like bringing out on the first date.”

“I’m sorry you’ve had such a bad experience discussing your diagnosis,” he says, placing a hand on his knee. Its warmth leaks through Dean’s pants, spreading. “No one should have their struggles invalidated.”

Dean shudders a gasp, hands dropping into his lap. “That… really means a lot to me.”

A blast goes off in the background, Dean’s interest on the screen long gone. The movie doesn’t matter anymore. Cas looks at him, sees _him_ , and Dean has no trouble paying attention. Nothing can steal him from the soft adoration shining out of Cas’s eyes, magnified by his glasses. He starts talking, Dean missing the first few words.

“Come again?”

“You said weed helps, too,” Cas asks, a dark tint staining his cheeks, “do you smoke a lot?”

“What?” Dean snaps back into reality, poking himself on the fidget spinner’s edge. “Oh, uh… casually? I’m not a big fan of the smoking, though, that I do every once in a while. I like edibles. I’ve… made edibles, a few times. My brother’s actually a bigger stoner than I am. Which, with the virus being a lung thing I’m glad we live in a state where it’s legal so he’s not getting it from shady dealers off the street.” He licks his lips, nervous. “What’s your whole stance on weed?”

“Not a dealbreaker,” he says, “I’ve dabbled in it… not recently, for the very same reasons you’ve mentioned. But I used CBD oil after really strenuous workouts… and I used to take a CBD pill every night before bed.”

“Used to?”

“I’m sort of an insomniac.”

Dean snorts, turning in his seat, “Sort of? I didn’t know diagnoses were given at a half measure…”

“Okay, full blown…” Cas snickers, abandoning the movie, too. “I probably averaged about three hours of sleep my entire life. It was really bad in college, when I spent my nights either doing homework of taking shifts at this crappy twenty-four-hour gas chain. Hardly ever slept. When I passed out during Thanksgiving, slamming –“ He chokes on a laugh, gasping, forcing himself through the story. Dean hangs on his every word. “S-slamming my face into the mashed potatoes with enough force that I tipped the whole bowl over and it went _flying_ – stop it!” Cas slaps at his shoulder, Dean’s cheeks straining from how wide his grin sits. Enjoying Cas’s story, “If you keep looking at me like that I won’t – I won’t be able to finish the story!”

In that moment, Dean cares little about how it ends. Aliens could have invaded Cas’s family home, abducted him, and offered him the secret to world peace in exchange for stuffing. A deal denied because stuffing was more precious than peace in the Novak household. Dean would find even _that_ ending boring. Less enthralling than the storyteller, with bright blue eyes hidden behind wide lenses and crinkling skin. A beautiful expression of joy transforming his face, lips trembling with mirth. One hand limply looped around Dean’s wrist.

Dean focuses on that, the weight of his fidget spinner a distant, far-off point.

He’s not nervous. All he feels is relief, of swallowing his fears for this night. For something _special_.

“Y’know,” Castiel says, unbuckling his seat belt, “we kinda missed the whole second half of that movie.” It’s not an accusation, but an observation. He and Dean spiraled into sharing memories, trying to outdo the other in ‘embarrassing tales’.

Dean thought he won with a mortifying anecdote about a school musical he participated in – (“It was for Sammy! He wanted to do crew, and I would’ve been waiting for him _anyway_.”) – where he accidentally fell asleep on stage. Woke up with a start, jumping. Ad-libbing since he forgot his lines. Then curled into a ball next to the ‘bed’, afraid he’d shatter the converted beach chair with his weight.

While Castiel agreed that Dean’s fledgling acting career was cringeworthy, it barely held a candle to when Gabriel booked reservations for the annual Novak family reunion.

“A _swinger’s resort_ , Dean,” Castiel said, leaning close enough his nose brushed Dean’s apple cheeks. The other man wheezing uncontrollably. “Within walking distance of a _nudist’s beach_. Because, I might have forgot to mention, the swinger’s resort was _clothing optional_. And I’m there, with my parents, trying not to look at the bellhop with _three legs_ as he brings our bags up.”

Swept up in their competition, they barely registered the credits rolling until suddenly an usher knocked on their window, ordering them out so the next crowd could pull up.

Sobered, they followed the trail of departing cars out. And Dean, with no prompting, began driving Castiel home.

They sit in front of Castiel’s apartment building, glass doors backlit by overhead fluorescents cutting through the night. Dean drags a hand through his hair, huffing a tiny breath. “Yeah,” he shrugs, “I guess we did. We’ll have to watch that other half sometime, then? Don’t ya think?”

Castiel sees the nerves tugging on Dean’s lips, forcing them into a smile. He offers a more natural expression, encouraging something similar on the other man. Brushes the pads of his fingers over Dean’s knuckles. “Definitely. That can be our next date.” A million stars brighten across Dean’s face, freckles shining with how happy he looks. Castiel’s heart swells with warmth. It cannot overpower the tinge of cold blowing along the edges. “Although,” he continues, gazing out the window, “I’d loathe to call this the end of our date…”

Dean taps on the steering wheel. _Tap. Tap. Tap._ “Who says it has to be?”

Flushing, Castiel drops his gaze towards his lap. “Dean, I –“

“Not like that,” he amends, grabbing Castiel’s shoulder, “No. Not that I wouldn’t _want_ to, and all… but I think the amount of protection we’d need would kill the mood a bit, right?” Dean swallows his laugh, coughing up its remains. “No, I was thinking we could go for a walk, maybe? If you’d like?”

“A walk?”

“It’s a beautiful night for one, isn’t it?”

Castiel cranes his neck, staring through the front window at the indigo sky. City living impossible for a natural view, but what they have is beautiful in its own write. Blank, like a dark page unscathed by words. Waiting for someone to scratch a pen across its surface. Take charge of their destiny. “It is,” he agrees, “be a shame to go inside now, wouldn’t it?”

“An awful shame.”

There’s a park a few blocks from his apartment. They stumble from Dean’s car, masks in hand, and head towards it.

Castiel fits the fabric over his face, bending the nose clip under his glasses. If they fogged up now, robbing him of Dean’s lovely profile, he’d be remiss. A stupid overreaction, but still true. While he drank as much of Dean in when they were together, there was no quenching his thirst for the other man. And back in the car, at the movie – no masks, barely six _inches_ of space between them – stirred a deep yearning within him now. For this virus to disappear. For certainty he would not get sick. For _Dean_.

His fingers twitch, reaching for Dean. Castiel shoves them into his pockets.

“So,” Dean calls from across the sidewalk, keeping appropriate distance. Lack of foot traffic makes it easy for them to keep pace with each other. “Is this park safe?”

“What do you mean?”

“What do I…” His shoulders shake, eyes crinkling. “We’re not gonna get murdered or anything by walking in a park at night, are we?”

Castiel squints at him, frown hidden from view. “Why would we be murdered?”

“Because murderers like hanging out in parks at night?”

“Why would a murderer be out right now?”

“To… murder?”

“During a pandemic?” Castiel asks. He hums a sour note, “Murdering seems like something that can wait until after they’ve found a vaccine.”

“Cas – oh my…” Dean pinches his brow, groaning. “I don’t know whether you’re joking or being serious about this.”

“…Which one is funnier?”

“Honestly,” Dean snorts, glancing at him, “I’m having a hard time deciding between the two.” He drops any conversation revolving around murder, and anything else. Slips into a silence that shouldn’t be so comfortable for a first date.

But that’s how Castiel would perfectly describe their entire evening. _Comfortable_. Being with Dean felt like what he always imagined what a cloud would be. Mattress commercials be damned, seeing Dean _smile_ was softer than any memory foam or purple squares. Even when obstructed by a bandana.

The pot of his emotions boiled over the longer they drifted near each other. Quiet. Leaves talking in their own language, aided by the biting wind. Castiel looks at Dean and wants _so much_. Pained by the desire, searching for any release.

They follow a bending path. He breathes in deeply, fog finally seeping over his glasses. Blissfully blinding him. “Can we hold hands?”

Castiel hears Dean stop. “What?”

“Hands,” Castiel continues, facing him. Glasses clearing bit by bit, Dean coming into view. Staring at Cas in confusion. “Would it be okay if we held hands?”

“Oh,” he says. Softly, muffled by fabric. His stomach lurches like it kept moving while Castiel stayed rooted to the spot. It returns, Dean continuing with his thought. “You sure? Not afraid of any Winchester germs I might have?”

“Terrified,” he admits, “but I believe that you and I… we’ve no reason to fear holding hands.” Castiel skews his head to the side, in thought. “As long as we don’t touch our eyes or mouths – and wash thoroughly after.”

Dean barks a short, mirthful noise, shifting on his feet. “Yeah,” he says, nodding, “I guess if we do that… a little skin-on-skin-light is okay.”

He holds his hand out for Castiel. Waiting. Castiel launches out at an undignified speed, stumbling when his fingers latch onto air. Dean pulling away last minute. “What?”

“Forgot to ask,” he chuckles, “you have a condom?”

“A… what?”

Dean wiggles his fingers, “A rubber?” Castiel rolls his eyes at the innuendo, huffing a muttered curse. Glad for the mask, blocking his thinning lips. He tells Dean he doesn’t. “Just wanted to make sure,” he says, taking Castiel’s hand in his. “I’m not the kind of guy who does this – and don’t expect me to put out like this again. No glove, no love man. They had sex education at my school.”

Castiel barely registered Dean’s rambling, too aware of how their hands fit. His, slightly clammy, and the other rough with innumerable callouses and hardened skin. He squeezed; heat surging up his arm.

Dean shivers. The leaves hadn’t rustled for quite some time.

“Dean,” Cas purrs, afraid his smile edges past his mask.

He blinks, returning. “Yeah?”

“We should probably keep moving,” he says, “y’know… in case there _are_ murderers.”

Castiel moves forward, dragging Dean along. Laughing as Dean stumbles after him. Spell broken, however, Dean charges ahead in a dead sprint. Now Castiel was the one who nearly fell on his face, trying to keep pace with his date.

It became a race. Castiel, an experienced runner, found himself lagging behind Dean’s long legs. He didn’t give up. Draining his reserves for a final burst of speed once they reached the end of the park.

Crossing the threshold, Castiel held his arms up as he crossed an imaginary finish line. Then, exhausted, he leans against the nearby iron fence surrounding the park. Dean joins him, gasping for breath.

Their hands were still joined.

“Rematch,” Dean growls, “I want… a rematch.”

Castiel squeezes Dean’s hand again, grinning behind a sweat-dampened mask. “Third date.”

“Third?”

“We’ve already made Spaceballs our second, remember?”

Dean sags the tiniest bit, knees bent. Eyes shining with unbridled _need_ that causes a drought in Castiel’s mouth unrelated to their race. He swallows around his own desires, words stuck in his throat. Knowing that if he said them, there’d be no stopping.

He chooses silence, as does Dean. Walking together, hand-in-hand, not speaking. It’d be maddening if it weren’t so damn _comfortable._

They reach Castiel’s apartment too soon. Crossing onto the block, their pace slows. Sluggish. Neither willing to take those last, few steps. Endings must come, though. And Castiel is tired. His home calls, promising sweet dreams of green-eyed bakers in a place where viruses can’t reach them. A temptation he cannot resist.

“I really liked tonight, Dean,” Castiel says, still latched on. Other hand hovering near the door handle. Not ready _just_ yet. “Thank you, for making it special.”

“S’easy to do that,” he shrugs, redness creeping past his bandana, “when the company’s good. _You_ made it easy.” His gaze flits around, never landing on him for longer than a few seconds. “I know, before, you said things about a second and a – and a third date. You weren’t… you weren’t joking about that, were you?”

Castiel lets his thumb drag across the back of Dean’s hand. “Not at all. I’d be ready for another date tomorrow if I didn’t already make plans with Gabriel.”

“You can cancel,” Dean shuffles closer, pinning Castiel between him and the door. “He’d understand, especially after I promise him free pies for a month.”

“You know my brother well,” Castiel says, “unfortunately, my brother deferred his taxes and they’re due by next week. So I need to hold his hand throughout the video call with our accountant while she tells him how much he owes the government.”

Dean sighs, rocking on his heels. “Fucking hate taxes…”

“Don’t we all.”

“If only we were rich,” Dean muses, “then we wouldn’t have to pay ‘em, because all our money’d be squirreled away in some secret bank. Maybe an island. An island where we could live, away from everyone… unburdened by all that’s happening. And we could…”

“We could…” His lungs cannot hold any air, every muscle wound tight as Dean’s stare bores into him. “We could what?”

Dean dips his head. Castiel’s mask pokes at his lips, pressed there by the other man’s cloth-covered mouth.

Castiel snorts, laying a hand on his shoulder, “ _Dean_.”

He slowly removes himself, green eyes hidden behind his wince. “I forgot about the –“

“The masks, yeah,” he finishes for Dean, laughing. Castiel tugs on Dean’s mask, revealing plush and waiting lips. Then, he frees his own mouth. “One more try?”

It’s chaste. More innocent then his first kiss; a featherlight touch that leaves him wondering if Dean did anything at all. But seeing Dean transform, expression dazzling as he pulls away, Cas knows it happened. Still, to make sure, Cas drags him in for another.

If all they can do is kiss, he better make it last.

Dean watches the light with a hawkish gaze, hunched forward in his seat. Grip tightening on the wheel. “C’mon, c’mon…” he mutters, knee bouncing at a rapid pace. A strand of hair flutters into view, and he immediately overcorrects. Drags a twitchy hand through a dark blond curtain, from root to the fringed edges that curl around his neck. “C’mon, c’mon…” He debates with himself over whether there’s enough time left in the red light for some styling. Use the ever-present hair tie around his wrist and pull any loose strands so they’re not falling in his face. As he plucks the makeshift bracelet, red becomes green.

Dean slams on the gas pedal. There are more important things than hair, namely a certain blue-eyed beau waiting.

Been waiting the recommended _two weeks_ after receiving his vaccine shot. Waiting for _him_.

_Come over_ _😘_

That was all he needed. Dean jumped from his bed, hopping into jeans while brushing his teeth. Checked his reflection, confident nothing was amiss. Then, after blindly shoving his feet into random shoes, he ran out the door. Doubling back only because he forgot to lock the door. A mask wasn’t needed, Dean barreling towards one location.

Besides, he’d received the vaccine earlier in the month and finished self-quarantine as it worked through his body. Days blurred past, crammed full like one last hurrah. Bingeing television with Sam, video chats with Charlie, and constant contact with Cas. Texting him, calling him, moaning about how unfair it was he couldn’t schedule a vaccine around the same time.

“I’m going in three days for it,” Cas chuckled in his ear, Dean’s phone pressed there while he cooked. “The extra week will make it worth it.”

“Babe, the whole _year_ spent living like a Jane Austen heroine is already driving me up the wall!” Dean stopped stirring the boiling pasta, pinching his brow. “I just don’t think I can last any longer.”

“One week, my dear Elizabeth,” he mockingly cooed, “then you can have your Darcy.

Dean huffed. “Like hell _you’re_ Darcy.”

He turns down Cas’s block, parking in the first spot he finds. It must show how badly he craves the other man, Dean’s Baby left crooked. One wheel practically a foot from the sidewalk. Dean pockets the keys and continues onward, not sparing a second fixing his car. Her safety the farthest thought in his mind.

Jogging across the street, Dean shoots a quick text Cas’s way: _Ring me in_.

Smiling, Dean opens both sets of doors; overhead buzz echoing in the hallway between them mixes with a similar sound thrumming under his skin. He breezes past the front desk, ignoring their calls, and bounds up the steps. Taking two – sometimes three – at once, hurdling over invisible obstacles on his quest. Dean slows only when he reaches Cas’s floor. Skids to a stop in front of his door, punching into it frantically.

“Dean,” Cas says, an inch of space revealing a familiar blue eye, “what are you –“

Dean slams against the wood, startling Cas backwards as the hinges creak. It hits the wall with a great sound, Dean shutting it even louder when on the other side. Cas frowns, brows bent an ugly, angry shape. He speaks gibberish, distorted by the blood rushing in Dean’s ears. Driven by instinct and urge, Dean snags Cas by the collar and pulls him close for a kiss.

His embrace drains any fight left in Cas, protest waning the longer they stay connected. Arms wrapping around his shoulders, squeezing Dean.

Dean’s tongue enters Cas’s mouth with as much ferocity Dean had moments ago. Slipping through the two pink, chapped gates for his first taste of Cas. “God,” Dean whines, overwhelmed by the sparks, “you’re so good!”

Cas pants, scrabbling at his shoulders while he distances himself. “Just like you imagined?”

“Even better, babe.” Dean knocks their foreheads together, brushing his nose along Cas’s. “You ready for the first night of the rest of your life?”

“Wow,” Cas huffs, “you got a ring to accompany that?”

Dean smiles, dropping a tiny kiss on Cas’s cheek. “Must’ve forgot it at home. In so much of a rush to get here…”

“Fuck off,” Cas shoves him, stepping out of his reach. Dean grabbing at air. Laughter rings throughout the empty apartment. “Really? You rushed?”

“You’re surprised?”

“Somewhat,” Cas admits, glancing at Dean from over his shoulder. Brow raised, “Figured you would have camped outside the day before?”

He swallows the confession, about how the thought crossed his mind. Sam taking preemptive action, hiding Baby’s keys all of yesterday so Dean was stranded at home. His brother handed them over that morning, before work, dropping them on the table as he left. “Too creepy,” he says, “didn’t wanna turn you off now that we can finally, officially, _safely_ engage in certain activities.”

“It’d take something pretty big to turn me off,” Cas tells Dean, “especially after everything we’ve been through.” His hands find Dean again, fingers curling around belt loops. Cas hums, breath ghosting across Dean’s lips, body quivering. “You don’t know how long _I’ve_ wanted this…”

“You’re right, I don’t know,” he deflects, overwhelmed by the heat pooling in his stomach. “Keeping secrets from me?”

“If you knew how much I wanted this, we’d know what it’d be like already.”

Dean’s eyes widen, “Seriously?”

“Indeed.” Cas nuzzles Dean’s jaw, nibbling on the skin there. “So many times I wanted to damn the precautions… like Valentine’s Day? You remember that, right?”

“Course I do…” A candlelit dinner out in Dean’s backyard, Sam coerced into being their waiter. Serving them roasted lamb, champagne, and all the pies Dean baked while his nerves strangled themselves in anticipation.

“I fed you a piece of raspberry pie, only I misjudged the distance from the fork to your mouth. A little bit ended up along the seam of your lip, and your tongue slid out. Captured that filling and corralled it back inside your mouth?” Dean hears his zipper slowly ease down, Cas fiddling with his pants while he was distracted. “I was so hard, picturing what that tongue would feel like on my _cock_.”

“You… you were?” Dean pants, chin leaning on Cas’s shoulder. Legs made completely useless by the hand dipping behind his boxer briefs.

“And remember what I did after I put the fork down?” Cas asks.

“I…” he knows but cannot say. Moan overpowering his words, Cas biting into his neck. Cas unlatches himself from Dean, trailing his mouth upwards towards the shell of his ear. Hand not grazing Dean’s dick fisting at his hair. Roughly jerks his head backwards, more blood traveling southward.

“Dean,” Cas growls in a harsh whisper, “I know you remember. _What did I do_?” He pulls on his hair again, pleasure spiking. Another benefit of his new hairstyle, he muses within the fog of ecstasy. That makes all of Sam’s teasing and Charlie’s name-calling worth it. Dean would wear a thousand tie-dye shirts and legally change his name to Hansen if it meant Cas would keep tugging on his long locks. The shoulder-length style _definitely_ suits him, now. “ _Dean_ ,” Cas says again, guiding him back, “stay with me. What did I do after I fed you some pie?”

Dean wets his dry lips, stuttering on failed breaths. “You said – you told me you loved me.”

“All I could do,” Cas admits, grabbing at Dean’s shaft. Strokes it. “To keep myself from jumping you right there in your backyard.”

His eyes fall shut, another moan coaxed out of him. “And what –“ he gasps, Cas thumbing at Dean’s slit, “-what’s stopping you now?”

“Not a goddamn thing. Not anymore.”

Cas walks them towards the center of the room, shoving Dean’s pants off. “Shoes,” he mutters against his skin, “in the way. Can you?” Dean nods, kicking them elsewhere. Cas steps on Dean’s toes in his excitement, Dean cursing at the weight of the other’s bare heel. “Sorry,” he says, helping him divest the rest of his clothes. Jeans and underwear left where they drop, and Dean’s shirt thrown into some far corner. Cas pauses, studying Dean’s naked body.

“Well,” Dean asks, covering Cas’s hand with his own, stroking himself through him. “It’s not like you haven’t seen it already…”

“Yes, but,” Cas grins. His expression hardens Dean’s seizing dick. “Pictures cannot compare to the real thing.”

Blushing, Dean molds himself over Cas’s body. Lazily pulls at his hoodie, “Come on, then. Fucking awkward being the only one naked.”

Cas struggles in Dean’s hold, surrendering after Dean laves at his Adam’s apple. Together they shuck his worn hoodie, adding it to the pile of clothes on the floor. His sweatpants fall off easier, Cas balling them up with an embellished swagger. “Laundry day,” he explains, “can you believe? No more underwear.”

Dean jumps him, both men tumbling onto the floor. “Screw the bed,” he growls, “screw condoms, screw lube I just – fuck, Cas, I just want to do this here. Now, with you.”

“We can’t forget condoms and lube, Dean,” Cas sighs, shuffling out from under Dean. He rests on his elbows, groping at the nearby coffee table until he finds a bottle of lube alongside a pack of condoms Dean somehow glossed over. “Lucky you, I’m _very_ prepared.”

It’s considerate, presumptive, and _very_ funny. “Christ, Cas,” he laughs, head dropping onto Cas’s chest, “You really are. Planning on taking me here from the get?”

“No. Just knew you’d be too horny to make it to the bedroom.”

“Me? Too horny?” Dean says, head bobbing with Cas’s chuckling. “You’re the one who dropped the l-bomb instead of asking for oral. Out of the two of us, _you’re_ the horny one. Should’ve known, too. Always the quiet ones.”

Cas threads his fingers through Dean’s hair, petting him. “I suppose you’re right,” he tells Dean, “I did – after all – pay Gabriel off to watch Luci for the day.”

“No foolin’? What’d that cost you?”

“A week of free pies from you.”

Dean musters a weak glare, head rising for a better effect. “Seven pies, Cas?”

“Seven pies.” Cas drops the lube, instead reaching for the condoms. He unfolds the pack, letting them dangle. “For the seven rounds I’m planning for us.”

Dean surges forward, cupping Cas’s chin in his hands as he kisses him. “Have I told you lately how much I love you?”

“No,” Cas says, “but you can show me.”

He does. _Seven times_.

**Author's Note:**

> Another DCBB is in the books! So glad to be part of a great year of stories - of a show that will live on for years to come 💖💖💖


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